You'll Be In My Heart
by xerxia31
Summary: Post-war, Katniss and Peeta learn to live and love again. Post-Mockingjay. Alternating POV. Canon compliant. Rated M for later chapters. (Trigger warnings: there's some violence and smut in here, though not together)
1. Chapter 1

_You'll be in my heart_  
_No matter what they say_  
_You'll be here in my heart_  
_Always._

* * *

I've been home three weeks; inasmuch as you can call this barren, burned out wasteland my home. Almost nothing remains of 'home', my family's bakery is gone, the little loft above it where I took my first steps, where I wrestled with my brothers, where I grew and dreamed, gone, my family too is gone. My school, my friends, my town: all gone. Victor's Village remains however; the house given to me after the Games, and eleven others just like it, stand sentinel, overlooking the ash and dust and destruction.

_When I returned three weeks ago the train that brought me away from the Capitol pulled into the station before dawn, and I was spared confronting the depth and breadth of the destruction, at least temporarily, as I trudged from the station up the hill to Victor's Village in the moonlight. Though no one was there to meet me at the station, I found my house had been cleaned, a fire laid and the kitchen stocked with enough food and basics to get me through the first few weeks of homecoming. I hadn't told anyone I was returning (because, really, who was there to tell?) but someone knew anyway, and that small bit of welcome, that warm fire and pantry full of flour and sugar, made me weak with gratitude._

_When I returned three weeks ago and felt that gratitude, that reminder that I wasn't alone, I walked with purpose into the wooded area beyond my yard to find the primrose bushes I remembered blooming the previous spring, digging them up and carefully nestling them into a wheelbarrow, then planting them along the side of her house._

_When I returned three weeks ago I saw her for the first time in many months. Saw her wide, frightened eyes, matted hair, dirty clothes, and hollow cheeks. She was tiny, feral, more wraith than girl. She hardly looked like the person who I'd spent so many hours, days, months watching on tapes, trying to piece together what was real and what was not real. Katniss._

_She was so beautiful._

_She __**is**__ so beautiful._

As the days and weeks pass I try to establish a routine; this is what the Capitol doctors who treated me emphasize is important to my recovery. Each day I rise before the dawn to bake, bread most mornings, sometimes rolls or pastries too. I bring some to Katniss, and Greasy Sae makes breakfast for both of us, eggs or hot grain, simple hearty food. I try occasionally to make small talk with Sae or with Katniss, but mostly we eat in silence, or rather I eat in silence. Katniss alternates between picking at her food, feeding her meal to the cat or simply staring off into space and leaving her plate untouched. This morning is a staring off into space day, the third in a row. Greasy Sae's brow is furrowed as I finish, and she stays behind after I leave. I wonder if she's hoping to cajole Katniss into eating when I'm not there. I hope so.

After breakfast I find ways to occupy my time. Some days I paint, some days I clean, some days I plan for the garden I'm hoping to plant now that spring is coming. Most days I bring Haymitch bread or something else I've baked, though he's seldom conscious when I do. Some days I walk; I haven't yet ventured to what used to be the town centre though. I have to work my way up to that, and mentally I'm not strong enough yet. Once a week I walk to the train station, to pick up my weekly Capitol delivery.

Today is a Capitol delivery day. The station is busy, several hundred people have returned to District 12 already and more arrive almost every week. My delivery is large today, two good-sized boxes and a couple of envelopes. I wish I'd thought to bring my wheelbarrow to carry it all, but I'll have to manage. Tucking the envelopes into my jacket and stacking the boxes one on top of the other, I'm just starting down the platform when I hear an unfamiliar voice calling my name. When I turn, a man with the distinctive dark hair and olive skin of the Seam is striding towards me pushing a cart loaded with boxes. He looks vaguely familiar but I don't think I know him.

"Peeta," he greets me, setting down the cart and extending a hand to me, which I shake firmly, my boxes balanced precariously on my hip. "Don't think we've been properly introduced," he continues. "The name's Thom, I used to work with Gale Hawthorne, before…" he trails off. He doesn't need to specify before what. We all know; the lives of everyone in the district are divided into before the firebombing, and after. Well, everyone except Haymitch, Katniss and me, our 'divisions' are a little different. Thom clears his throat, "Anyway, I'm bringin' Haymitch's and Miss Katniss's deliveries up for them. Would you like to drop your packages on the cart too?"

I smile at him in gratitude. "Thanks Thom, I really appreciate that, I was a little worried about getting them up the hill, I didn't realize I'd ordered so much this week." Thom helps me settle the boxes into the cart, and then we walk away from the station together. Along the way we converse, he's friendly and interesting, and obviously a keen observer with plenty of stories and gossip. He tells me about the reconstruction, which he's coordinating, and we chat about the people who have returned to the district, the people who remain in District 13, and the people we've lost. I realize that Thom was in the same class at school as my eldest brother, and though they weren't friends they knew each other from sports teams.

"Really sorry about your brother Peeta, about all of your family, wasn't right what the Capitol did to us." he says softly. I nod but can't speak, I miss my family every single day but the guilt over what happened makes it difficult to talk about them. Thom seems to understand, and after a pause he continues speaking about other things going on in the district.

When we reach the gates to Victor's Village he immediately steers the cart towards my house, without me having to tell him which one it is. _No_, I think wryly, _everyone already knows where we live_. Thom sets my boxes on the porch, and then reaches for my hand again. "Real pleasure finally speakin' with you Peeta," he says with a firm shake. "Hope I'll see you 'round."

"Count on it Thom," I reply with a smile, "And thank you!" He turns and manoeuvres the cart across the street towards Haymitch's house. I carry the boxes into my kitchen, then come back to look out the front window, in time to see Thom handing off a huge bundle of envelopes to Greasy Sae as she stands on Katniss's porch, before he disappears into her house carrying a box. He's back out and steering the cart towards the gates before even a minute has passed. It's then that I realize why he looks so familiar; I've seen him exiting Katniss's house once before, the day that I returned to District 12.

_My heart had nearly stopped for a moment that day, seeing him leaving her house, that dark hair and olive skin looking far too much like someone else's. It had taken a few moments to register that he was much shorter and stockier than Gale, but those few moments had opened up a well of anxiety and doubt that had left me fighting flashbacks the rest of that day._

Not wanting to revisit that, I shake my head and return to the kitchen to begin unpacking my order. One box is filled with new paints, canvasses and sketchbooks, cleaning solutions and brushes, and I have to resist the urge to clap like a small child. I may eventually become accustomed to being able to afford good art supplies, but it hasn't happened yet.

The second box contains food and sundries: salt, sugar, flour, a tiny glass bottle of vanilla extract, bags of raisins and nuts, bars of baking chocolate, paper goods, and seed packets. At the bottom is something I don't remember ordering: a brick of cheese. Unlike the soft unripened cheese that is common in District 12, this is firm, aged cheese from District 10, orange and strong-smelling. My father used to order cheese like this from the Capitol for only one reason.

Cheese buns.

I find myself clutching the back of a chair tightly as I'm flooded with memories: my father showing me how to bake cheese buns, watching him trade them for squirrels at the back door of the bakery, making them for Katniss when she hurt her foot. Memories of those couple of weeks where I spent every day with her, working on her family's plant book. Dozens of memories sort themselves out in my mind, and not a single one shiny. I'm trembling, but elated; who knew a simple brick of cheese could open the floodgates of my memories?

* * *

I'm awake even earlier than usual and I head straight for my kitchen. My hands mix and measure and knead almost of their own volition. When I exit my house and head across the green it's with a bounce in my step and a basket of warm buns tucked under my arm. I enter through the back door of Katniss's house, it leads directly into the kitchen, where Greasy Sae is frying eggs and Katniss sits at the table, staring vacantly at the wall.

"Good morning, Sae. Good morning Katniss," I try. Sae nods, but Katniss makes no sign that she's even heard me. I set the basket down in the middle of the table, then unwrap the cloth that covers the buns. Katniss's eyes shift to the basket and widen. She looks up, making eye contact with me for the first time in weeks. Her expressive silver eyes look surprised and, I think, pleased.

"Cheese buns?" she questions, her voice a soft rasp. I smile, and nod.

"They're your favourite, real or not real?"

"Real," Katniss gifts me with a smile, a real smile, the first I've seen from her since the Quell. My heart skips a beat. She pulls one from the basket, bringing it to her nose and inhaling deeply. "Mmmmm," she half moans, half purrs. I feel my cheeks go pink, and I look away quickly.

Breakfast is still a quiet event but Katniss is definitely mentally present today, and she eats four cheese buns plus the eggs Greasy Sae prepares. When she finishes, she stands up and announces "I think I'll go hunting today," then heads for the front hall. I clear her plate and my own, and as I do so she walks back through the kitchen wearing her father's hunting jacket with her bow slung over her shoulder. She grabs one more cheese bun from the basket before heading out the back door, a spring in her step. Sae and I both watch, silently, mouths identically agape.

As I make to leave myself, Sae grabs my arm. "Thank you dear boy," she says, her eyes shining, as she reaches up to cup the back of my head with her hand, a gesture so maternal that it makes my heart pang. I swallow hard and nod, not trusting my voice. She draws me into a quick hug, then releases me and turns to the sink, looking lighter than she has in days.


	2. Chapter 2

I think it's getting easier. There are still lost days, still days when Greasy Sae has to drag me out of bed and down to the kitchen, but once I'm there I'll usually eat without being fed now. Most mornings I go out to my woods after breakfast. It's not the best time to hunt, I'd have much better luck at sunrise and sunset, but it's fine for checking the snare lines and gathering the greens that are popping up everywhere now. And I do shoot, a little anyway. Squirrels and rabbits mostly. It's taken a couple of weeks to be able to get them through the eye, like before, but my arm strength and my steadiness are returning bit by bit. I still struggle with endurance but since I'm never in a hurry anymore I let myself rest as often as I wish. Sometimes I even nap out here, cradled on a bed of pine needles and moss, dappled sunshine soothing me.

I cry out here too; in the solitude of my woods I feel my losses more acutely. Every medicinal herb I discover is another opportunity to reflect on the people who no longer need me to gather them. Every animal and bird I catch reminds me of the people who I no longer help support with my hunting, of the people I can no longer trade with because they too are gone.

I often think of Gale out here, how can I not when these woods have been ours, together, since I was 12? Every tree, every path, every berry patch and stream, all of them I shared with Gale. I miss the Gale I used to know, the one who could make me smile and even sometimes laugh, the one who made hunting easier and more fun, the one who really knew me, who I could speak with about almost anything. That Gale is gone, and he's never coming back, one more person that the Capitol stole from me. Now there is only the heartless man who blew up miners and built bombs that killed my sister, who took away from me the only person I was ever sure I loved. And that Gale isn't coming back either. I was relieved to find out that Gale is in District Two, but it doesn't extinguish the pain of his abandonment, not really.

Without thinking about it, I've ventured to our meeting spot. The blackberry brambles that surround it are covered in white flowers now, I should gather some, and some leaves, to make tea, but instead I curl up in our nook, which is much too big without him beside me, and let the loneliness wash over me.

I cry for a while, feel sorry for myself, and wonder, again, why I continue to live, why my heart continues to beat when so many others who were far more deserving don't have that luxury. The sun moves across the sky and small animals skitter by, near enough to almost reach out and grab them, but I remain still and silent. If I make myself small enough maybe I'll just fade away.

Out of nowhere, Greasy Sae's face swims in front of my eyes, and I feel guilty. I can't fade away, not after she's invested so much effort into keeping me alive these past few months. I suspect she's being paid to look after me, but the gentleness and kindness with which she treats me is all her own. She's been looking out for me in small ways since my father died. Maybe even before. Sae lost everything in the firebombing except for a single granddaughter, but I haven't heard a word of complaint from her. She lives in one of the big houses of Victor's Village now, looking out over the burned out shell of what was once her home and her livelihood. I've heard her chatting with Peeta about reopening her stall now that there is a rudimentary marketplace in town. She has hope, she believes in the future. For her I push myself through the motions of living.

And if I'm being honest, it's not just for Sae. It was Peeta returning that drew me out of the endless blackness that had consumed me since I was shipped back to District 12. Peeta coming to breakfast, baking me bread, remembering the cheese buns that I love. He seems like the Peeta of old: friendly, encouraging, kind. He shows up every morning without fail, bearing warm baked goods and an even warmer smile. I long to talk to him, really talk, but I'm afraid of opening old wounds. Still he shows up, in spite of my reticence and seeming indifference. He has a kind smile even when I can't make myself look up from my plate. I've missed him, really missed him, that steadiness and dependability. I'd thought it was gone forever but here he is. And that's the crux of it maybe, he was gone once, I'm terrified that if I let myself accept him he'll be gone again. What holds Peeta to District 12 anyway? He could be anywhere, everyone loves Peeta, he's sweet and funny, and when he speaks people listen. He's attractive too; I'd have to be blind not to notice. I watch him some mornings, when he's distracted talking to Greasy Sae. His blond curls are overlong now, and sometimes my fingers itch to bury themselves in his hair, to tug gently, to brush the silky waves off his brow. I'm still fascinated by his long golden lashes too, and those stunning blue eyes. He's regained a lot of the muscle he lost in the arena and during his captivity, and grown taller too. His shoulders are broad and his arms are strong and muscled, and those hands, those big hands and long fingers, the hands of an artist. I remember how his hands felt wrapped around mine, our fingers entwined, how steady and safe those hands are.

When they're not strangling me.

But I have to push that thought aside, that wasn't Peeta, that was the Capitol's creation. That's not the boy who brings me bread and smiles. They wouldn't have sent him back if he was any danger to me, I think. Certainly I haven't seen any evidence that mutt Peeta still exists. It's another thing I wish I could ask him, what they did to cure him, whether he's gotten back all that they stole. No, I know the answer to that anyway; he'll never get back everything they took from him, just like I won't. I think of the question he asked me on the train home from the first games: how much will be left? The answer is just as murky now as it was then.

I pick myself up and dust myself off, I've been out here for hours now and I really shouldn't go back empty handed.

My snares have caught only a couple of squirrels, still, Greasy Sae can turn those into a hearty stew I know. She can turn just about anything into a good meal, she's always been able to do that, it's just one of the many things I admire about her.

Striding back into Victor's Village I decide to drop in on Haymitch. Even though he continues to be ornery and drunk I try to check in on him from time to time. When I'm not lost to myself anyway. We will probably never really get along, but he's like family to me now, especially since my own family is gone. I have so few people left in my life.

I enter through the back door, the one that leads to his kitchen. It's not locked, and I don't bother knocking. It's not like he'd answer anyway. Today he's sitting at his kitchen table, sipping amber coloured liquid from a glass and eating slices of bread that could only have come from Peeta. His kitchen is fetid, the stench of dirty dishes and rotting food almost overwhelming. Still, it's the cleanest room of the house. Haymitch has fallen back into squalor since we returned to District 12. I resolve to ask Thom if there's someone in town I could hire to clean up in here. I have my doubts though, Hazelle might have been the only person with a strong enough stomach to deal with the cesspool that is Haymitch.

He glances up from his bread as I enter. "Well look what the cat dragged in! Hello Sweetheart," he slurs, I'm guessing the amber liquid is some sort of alcohol. I drop into a chair across from him wordlessly. He gestured towards his bread, "Boy's back."

I roll my eyes at him, "He's been back for a month Haymitch and you're just noticing now?" He shrugs.

"I noticed the bread, but I haven't seen him. I just wake up and here it is, waiting on my table. Like magic."

I snort, "Some magic. He's been baking for you for a month and you haven't even said thanks?"

The look he gives me is sardonic. "Yeah, because I'm the only one who hasn't thanked him for a couple of loaves of bread." I feel the heat rising in my face and my ears burn, but I have no comeback for that because, of course, he's right. I choose instead to glare at him. That simply makes him chuckle.

"Yeah well…"

We sit in silence for a while; we've never really needed words, either of us. He finally speaks again, more gently than typical. "You're looking a lot better Sweetheart. Sae says you're eating better too." I want to be offended that Sae is reporting to him, but I'm not, Haymitch is, after all, my legal guardian, as strange as that is. I can't even be angry about it anymore. So I simply shrug. "Wouldn't have anything to do with a certain baker boy now would it?"

I scowl at him, "Shut up, Haymitch." He chuckles again, but says nothing else, finishing his glass of amber and attacking another slice of bread.

"Sae says he looks good, back to normal." He's fishing, but I don't bite. Finally he sighs and simply asks "Are you okay with him being back Sweetheart?"

I study his grey eyes, looking in them for any reason why I shouldn't be okay, but they're inscrutable. I shrug, "I guess." He nods, but his brows knit together. "What?" I ask defensively.

"Are you afraid of him?" The question surprises me, I know what he means, after the attacks in 13 and in the Capitol, but I assumed that the doctors wouldn't have let him come to District 12 if it would endanger me. I mean, I don't have any other choice of where to be, while he could go anywhere.

"Should I be?" I try to sound nonchalant, but my voice wavers a little at the end, betraying me. Do I need to be afraid of Peeta? I still have nightmares of the day he tried to strangle me, but it's not his hands around my throat that make me wake up screaming in terror, it's his eyes, icy and full of loathing. Those eyes that could see all of the evil and blackness in me. I shudder inwardly.

"No." Haymitch says with such finality that I'm forced to look up at him again. "I've been speaking with Dr. Aurelius pretty regularly; he's kept me up to date about Peeta's progress. Peeta will probably never be cured, you understand that right?" I have nothing to say to that, as much as I hoped that they'd be able to undo what they did to Peeta I think I've always known it was an impossibility. Haymitch continues, "He's the only person who has ever survived being hijacked, his recovery is so much more than any of us could have hoped for. He's no longer violent and for the most part he's not confused, though there are some gaps in his head."

"He seems fine to me." I'm not even sure if this is true, I mean, Peeta's not screaming that I'm a mutt, and his smiles seem genuine enough, but I see him for all of 40 minutes a day and I haven't spoken more than a dozen words to him since the day he planted the primroses.

Haymitch is quiet for a long time, as if he's deciding whether to continue. "Katniss," his use of my real name startles me, makes me pay closer attention, "Do you know why Peeta came back here?"

"This is his home."

Haymitch smirks, "His home burned down Sweetheart, his family is dead, what does he have in District 12?"

I know what he wants me to say. "He has us," I whisper. Haymitch snorts.

"He has us does he Sweetheart? I'm asleep when he comes by, and you barely acknowledge him over breakfast." I bristle at this.

"What the hell do you know, Haymitch? You don't know anything at all about me or Peeta! You haven't even spoken to him once since he got back, and you've never come to see me! If I didn't come by from time to time you'd forget what I even looked like!" I'm so angry that he's lecturing me about Peeta, for months he never so much as stuck his head in my back door but he's concerned that I'm not paying enough attention to Peeta? It always comes back to this; I'm never going to be good enough for Peeta and Haymitch is going to make sure that I know it.

"I have other ways of keeping tabs on you, Sweetheart, I don't need to look at you." He practically sneers and I wonder, not for the first time, just how many glasses of that amber alcohol he's had. I deflate; I don't have it in me to fight with Haymitch today. Or maybe ever.

"Fine," I say, "What are you getting at Haymitch, cut to the chase."

"He came back for you, Sweetheart. Kid still loves you." His words twist in my stomach, make my chest flutter uncomfortably.

"No." I state emphatically, "No he doesn't. That's gone Haymitch, the Capitol saw to that." He quirks an eyebrow at me and drags his eyes to the heel of bread still sitting on his table. I follow his gaze and understand what he's hinting at. "No," I say again, "That's just Peeta being Peeta, being good and kind and giving…" I sniff a little, remembering. Even when he was so angry with me, before the Victory Tour, even then there were baked goods wrapped in paper left on my porch. Even then he wouldn't abandon me completely.

"You're still completely oblivious. Or are you just pining for Tall, Dark and Absent?" His tone is contemptuous. I pick up his empty glass tumbler and throw it at his head. He's lucky that my aim is still off; it hits the wall behind him and shatters. He doesn't even flinch. I refuse to talk about Gale, our friendship is over, and there was really no chance of us ever having had more than that anyway. I push back my chair and make for the door.

"Katniss." I stop, but don't turn around. "What did we go through all of this for? Don't throw your life away because you're too afraid to live it."

"It's not living I'm afraid of." I say to the door. "They're all gone Haymitch. I can't lose anyone else." I can hear him shuffling behind me, opening a cupboard door. Probably looking for another clean glass. Good luck with that, Haymitch.

"He'll wait forever, you know that, but it wouldn't be fair to either of you. You both deserve happiness." His voice is tinged with melancholy, and maybe regret. I still don't turn back. I can hear liquid sloshing; I guess he found something clean enough. The booze will probably kill anything growing on his dirty dishes anyway.

I chew on my lip, staring out his back door for what feels like a long time before finally I admit, "I'm glad he's back." There's so much more that I should say but I don't have the words. I never have the words. But Haymitch doesn't need words to understand me. So I leave his house without looking back.


	3. Chapter 3

I've spent the morning and most of the afternoon in what will be my garden, turning the soil and laying out rows. It's warm for April, but I know it's too soon to begin planting, there will be another hard frost yet I'm sure. I want to be sure that everything is ready, I think I can start planting in another couple of weeks. The garden will be large, but I welcome the challenge, it'll keep me busy and provide me, and my neighbours, with fresh vegetables all summer long. Well, I hope it will. I have exactly zero experience gardening after all.

As I stand to head into the house and clean up I see her, striding through the gates of the village. At first I think she's heading to her house, but she shifts her path and walks directly towards me. She's flushed and wisps of hair that have escaped from her short braid fly around her face in the breeze. "Hi," I say with a smile, wiping my hands on my pants. She smiles shyly and extends something to me, wrapped in cloth.

"Morels," she says as I open the cloth and peer in at the fragrant mushrooms. "For you."

"Thank you," I smile widely at her. She looks away, shifting from foot to foot, like she wants to say something but can't find the words. I simply wait, observing her as I do. The game bag slung over her shoulder is full and her eyes are bright and clear. Her cheeks are still hollow, and the circles under her eyes suggest exhaustion, but she looks better every day.

"I found fiddleheads too," she finally says, "And, uh," she takes a deep breath. "And would you like to come for dinner? Would you like to have dinner with me tonight?" It comes out in a rush, and I freeze, not entirely certain I've heard her right. As the words sink in a smile spreads across my face.

"I would love to," I sound like an eager little kid, but I can't help myself. She raises her head and flashes me a brief, shy smile.

"Great, come by around six then, okay?" She's turned and is walking briskly back across the green before I can even reply. I watch her in wonder. Katniss Everdeen just asked me to dinner.

* * *

I bake tarts, studded with raisins and nuts, to bring for dessert. I've showered and am dressed with an hour to spare, and have begun pacing the living room. I'm incredibly nervous, though I shouldn't be nervous, we have shared breakfast together every morning, this isn't any different. _It's completely different, she invited you this time_, I think. This is true; we sort of fell into our joint breakfasts after Greasy Sae asked me to stay that first morning, and then asked me to return the next. I've never even asked Katniss if she minded me being there. _It's Katniss, if she minded you wouldn't be there. _ That too is true, she's damaged and hurting, but she's still Katniss, and I've seen sparks of that indomitable will I know if still smouldering beneath the surface. _If you don't calm down you're going to push yourself into an episode_. I sigh, this is also true, stress and exhaustion make it harder to fight off the shiny memories, and the last thing I want to do is lose it around Katniss. I haven't had a violent episode in a long, long time, not since the incident with Mitchell, but even with the milder flashbacks I'm not completely convinced that it'd be safe for Katniss to be around me when I have one.

I decide to draw to calm myself down, and sit in the kitchen with sketchbook and pencils bringing to life on the page the delicate honeycomb texture of the morels Katniss brought for me. By the time 6 o'clock rolls around I've calmed considerably.

Greasy Sae lets me in; Katniss is laying out plates of food. Two plates. **Only** two plates. Sae waves and calls out a good bye, and I'm left standing in the kitchen with Katniss, just the two of us. I can hardly breathe. "She needed to get back to Lila," Katniss offers by way of explanation. Lila is Greasy Sae's orphaned granddaughter, a simple little girl who sometimes tags along for breakfast. Sae and Lila are the only two in their family who survived the firebombing, they live now in one of the Victor's Village houses, beside the gates that head to town. A revolving group of returnees and new immigrants from Thirteen stay with Sae when they arrive to build (or rebuild) their homes, she seems to flourish caring for them just as she does caring for Katniss. And, well, caring for me too I guess.

Katniss gestures for me to take my chair, and then sits across from me, much like we do every morning. My nerves are forgotten when I see my plate, suddenly I'm ravenous. Rabbit, rolled in breadcrumbs and cooked up crispy, fiddleheads and morels fried in oil and flecked with pepper. Everything tastes delicious. Even Katniss eats well.

"This is the best meal I've had in months! Thank you Katniss," I exclaim.

"I caught the rabbit this morning, two of them in fact," she smiles. "Sae cooked it, and the greens too."

"It's wonderful, I haven't had any fresh meat since I came back." I'm reluctant to admit this but it slips out before I can stop it.

Her brow furrows. "You haven't?"

Shaking my head I explain, "Fresh meat doesn't come in the Capitol deliveries. There were some canned goods in my pantry, but mostly I've been eating bread and cheese." Thinking about Sae's breakfasts I add, "And eggs."

"But Rooba is back in business, she has a stall in the new marketplace. I bring her game sometimes, and she gets beef and even chicken from District 10 as well," Katniss says, her eyes registering confusion. I look down, as if suddenly interested in the table.

"I, uh, I haven't been to the marketplace yet." I clear my throat, "Actually, I haven't been to town at all yet. I, uh, I'm not really ready. To - to face it." My cheeks are flushed with embarrassment; I feel weak and cowardly admitting this.

Silence fills the kitchen until finally Katniss speaks so softly I almost miss it. "I'll go with you, if you want. When you're ready I mean." I look up; her eyes are full of understanding. "It was really hard for me to see the town and the Seam at first too. Still is. Thom and the others have cleared away the worst of it now at least. But it's hard."

I'm flooded with gratitude. "Thank you," I say quietly, "I think I'd like that."

"Anyway," she continues after a pause, "We can share what I hunt and gather." I shake my head, I can't take food from her mouth, but she only waves me off, "It's only fair, you've been feeding me too. And Haymitch, I don't think he'd eat at all if you didn't keep bringing him bread." I smirk, apart from the odd grunt Haymitch has made no recognition of my presence, but at least he's eating what I bring him. When he's conscious.

"I haven't even spoken to Haymitch," I admit. "He's never awake when I'm there."

She nods, "He still sleeps in the mornings, but he has a few useful hours in the late afternoon before he gets too drunk again, sometimes anyway. Nothing's really changed for him."

I sigh, "I feel like I should know that." I murmur. I don't really want to bring up the gaps in my memory, not just yet, but her expression demands that I elaborate. Taking a deep breath I begin, "The doctors in the Capitol worked wonders, but there are still things I don't remember. Being home helps though, so much has come back since I got here." I try to put as positive a spin on it as I can, but I know there are memories that I'll never get back. She looks at me sadly.

"Is there anything I can do to help?" she queries. I unintentionally suck in a sharp breath. So many of the memories that I can't make sense of, the ones that I can't sort into real or not real, involve her, but I didn't think I'd ever be able to work up the courage to ask for her help. Now she's offering.

I nod, probably a bit too eagerly. "The… the game we played, 'Real or Not Real', that was incredibly helpful, and Dr Aurelius continued that as part of my therapy while I was hospitalized in the Capitol. When people came to visit me, Delly and Haymitch and Johanna, even Effie once, I'd play that with them, and it helped me to sort out so many things. But there is so much that none of them knew. And… and most of the memories that the Capitol tampered with..." I bite my bottom lip hard to stop myself from going any further, from scaring her off entirely. But she simply nods once and smiles, just faintly.

"Okay."

"Okay?" I'm confused.

"Okay, you can ask me, and I'll tell you, anything I can anyway." She looks determined; that spark is there in her eyes again. It makes me grin, but I'm not quite ready to delve into the confusion of my mind right now, not when I'm enjoying this uncomplicated time together, just her and me. I try a diversionary tactic.

"Well, maybe not right this minute, there are still tarts to eat after all!" I know Katniss has a sweet tooth. She laughs at this, and while I pull out the plate of tarts she makes us tea, and leaves mine unsweetened. I smile inwardly; she told me that's how I take my tea even before I remembered it myself. It's those little things that remind me she's not a mutt, she's a sweet girl, and somewhere deep inside she cares for me. I cling to that knowledge.

Somehow we end up in her living room, sitting on the floor like children, sipping tea and eating tarts, chatting about safe topics, the plants she's hoping to find now that spring is here, the garden I'm planting, Plutarch's ridiculous singing show. All too soon it's dark, the fire is dying down and Katniss is trying to stifle a yawn.

"It's late and you're tired, I should go," I say, reluctantly. She looks a little sad as I say it, but doesn't argue. "Can we…" I hesitate, not wanting to push my luck.

"Do this again?" she finishes. I nod, and she smiles softly. "I'd like that Peeta." It's the first time she's said my name since I returned, and it sends a shiver down my spine.

I rise to leave, stretching out my bad leg and offering Katniss a hand up, which she takes. Her little hand fits in mine perfectly, as it always has. As if our hands are made for each other. She walks me to the door. "Peeta?" she says as I step out onto the porch. I turn to her and she bites her bottom lip, like she's trying to force herself to say more. Finally she squeaks "Thanks for today," then she closes the door quickly. I smile to myself and head home.


	4. Chapter 4

Peeta has come for dinner the past few days and already it feels like a routine. Greasy Sae cooks, then leaves. Peeta and I do the dishes together, and then we sit in my living room. A couple of days ago we started to talk a little about the past, playing 'Real or Not Real' to help sort out some of his memories, but all of his questions were gentle, non-confrontational, sticking to safe topics. The kind of questions that I sense he's already pretty sure of the answers to. Testing the waters, as my father would say. Or maybe testing me, seeing if I'm trustworthy, seeing if I'll actually help.

Tonight I sense things will be different.

Peeta is considerably more nervous tonight, agitated even. Dinner is strained; I'm not good at small talk and tonight he doesn't even try. I wonder idly if he has had a bad day, or a bad night, but I can't make myself ask. While his eyes are downcast, concentrating on his plate of early greens and duck I let myself really observe him. He is regaining the muscle he lost to the Games and torture; digging in his garden and working with the large bags of flour he gets on the Capitol delivery trains have broadened his shoulders and strengthened his arms. The burn scars that travel up his neck and down his left arm are fading, they look much better than my own. He probably takes better care of them. Objectively he's even more handsome now than he was when he stood beside me on Reaping Day almost 2 years ago; his jaw is more defined and dotted with pale stubble that catches the light, his face has lost the softness of youth, he looks like a man now, which I guess he is. Today though, the circles under his eyes are dark and pronounced, making his eyes look sunken and sad. I wonder if he sleeps at all.

I wash the dishes and he dries, still silent but for the clink of plates and an occasional murmured thank you or that goes there. When we finish I turn to him, intending to ask if perhaps he's too tired to talk tonight, but he's already made his way into the living room. I follow and find he's settled into one of the armchairs, not on the couch where I can sit beside him, or on the floor where we've ended up together before. It feels more formal this way, like there is a barrier between us. I don't think it's a coincidence. I sink onto the couch and he makes eye contact with me for the first time. It does nothing to alleviate my unsettled feeling. His expression is wary, but determined, and I feel like I've disappointed him already though we've yet to say a word. If I was a better person I would think of something to say to ease the tension, to make him feel more comfortable and safe, but I have no words, so I sit silently watching him. He jumps in with no preamble.

"There was no baby, real or not real?" My heart breaks a little at this. If he's not sure about the fake baby then he must wonder if we've done things he can't remember, like he alluded to when we were in Thirteen.

"Real," I answer firmly. "You made up the story about the baby to protect me. And maybe to make the Capitol citizens feel bad about us all being in the arena again." Though we have never discussed his motivations I feel certain he was at least partially feeding off the dissent that the other Victors had started in their interviews.

"I wanted there to be a baby." His eyebrows are raised, but it doesn't feel like he's asking a question. My mouth opens, but nothing comes out. "I was crying."

I nod, "You cried after, while we were all standing on stage together. I think…" I hesitate, this is tough already and we're only two questions in, but I promised that I would help him sort it out and these are the things that only I can help him with. I take a deep breath and continue, "I think you were crying because you believed that was a future you'd never have. A wife and a baby. A family of your own. We both… we both went into the Quell expecting to die." There is so much more that I can't add, that I don't have the words or the will to share.

"We weren't really married. Haymitch told me that much." There is a hesitation in his voice, like he's not completely convinced. I just shake my head. "But we were engaged," he continues.

"Yes, we got engaged during the Victory Tour. Snow wanted us to have a big Capitol wedding. Cinna designed a bunch of dresses for the people to vote on."

"You didn't want to be engaged." Flat, not a question. I shrug.

"I didn't want to be forced to be engaged," I say diplomatically.

"You didn't want to be engaged to me." There's an odd edge to his voice now and it's making me uncomfortable. I try to push down the anger that threatens to bubble up, _he just needs clarity_ I remind myself, _and you promised you'd help_.

"It wasn't you," I fumble, trying to find the right words to make him understand, "I never wanted to get married to anyone, ever. In the districts, that was pretty much the only choice we got to make for ourselves, without the Capitol weighing in: who to marry or to not marry at all. And they were taking that choice away from us."

The look he gives me is so cold it's physically painful. "It was your idea, getting engaged. I remember that. I didn't want it."

I remember that too, the desperation, trying to do anything to convince Snow of that I was in love with Peeta, trying to quell an uprising in the districts that we had no power to stop, trying to keep our families safe. I remember the look on Peeta's face when I suggested it, the way he agreed but then locked himself into his room for the rest of the day. I didn't understand then, but I do now and the guilt is overwhelming. I have to choke back a sob before I can continue, "The public proposal was my idea, yes, but we would have had to have gotten engaged, and married, eventually. It was expected. They wouldn't have let the Star-Crossed Lovers live anonymously."

"What would have happened if we'd gotten married Katniss?" Peeta's voice is raised, his hands clenched into fists.

"What?" This is not in the realm of real or not real.

"Would you have gone through with it?"

"Yes," I answer immediately.

"You were going to run away." He pauses, and his brow furrows. "Real or not real?"

"We talked about it," I answer, a little evasively. "I – I asked you to. For all of us to run I mean. But you didn't think I'd go through with it. And you were right."

"Because you couldn't convince him." By him he means Gale, and I am not going to talk about Gale. I don't want to think about Gale, because thinking about Gale means thinking about _her_ and I can't think about her right now. Or maybe ever. My silence has stretched on too long and Peeta looks agitated. "So what would have happened? You'd have married me; played it all for the cameras, then run off every night with someone else?"

"No," I interject, but he is frenzied, not listening to me now.

"We'd have hardly acknowledged each other behind closed doors but put on a show every time the cameras were out? Maybe even some make-believe married scenes for Snow to listen to with the bugs in the house?"

"Stop it!" I'm yelling now too, my face is burning with humiliation.

"And all the while you can barely tolerate me."

"You know that's not true!"

"Do I? You couldn't stand me before. Five months you didn't even talk to me!" He means after our first games I think, and while it's true that we didn't talk that wasn't entirely my fault.

"You didn't talk to me either!" I yell, giving up any pretense of staying calm. "I told you I was scared and confused and you avoided me, you wouldn't let me work through what happened with you or even give me a chance to explain what I was thinking or feeling, you just took off as if nothing had ever happened! And I was devastated! I missed you before we even got off that damned train!"

"You had a funny way of showing it, traipsing off in the woods, rubbing my face in the fact that it was all an act!"

"It wasn't like that!"

"Then tell me how it was! Explain it to me!"

"I… I… I can't..." I'm so confused; I don't know how to explain to Peeta what my motivations were then when I don't even know myself. How can I tell him that my every thought was about keeping Prim safe, keeping Peeta safe, Gale safe, our families safe, how can I defend myself when I failed, I failed every one of them, they're all dead or gone or irreparably damaged.

Peeta is pacing now, yelling maybe, I can see his mouth moving but I can't understand the words. His fists shake but all I can do is pull my knees up to my chest and drop my head onto them, wrapping my arms around my head, trying to shut out the litany only I can hear_: it's your fault, you killed them all, they're all dead and it's your fault. It should have been you. You don't deserve to live_. "No, no, no…" I moan but the voices don't stop, they get louder, more insistent_, you're worthless, you don't deserve to live, you stole Prim's life, she should be here, you should be dead_.

Distantly I hear my door slam as Peeta leaves.

The night brings its own horrors. I drift asleep, only to be awakened repeatedly by my screams as I watch everyone I love die over and over again. When the sun rises Greasy Sae finds me still curled up tightly in a ball, lying on my couch. She bends down to stroke my hair.

"Come eat child, there are some muffins in the kitchen." I glance towards the kitchen, then look up at her questioningly and she understands what I'm asking without me saying. "He's not comin' for breakfast today. Gave them to me on my way in."

"I'm not hungry," I mumble into my knees. She sighs, and pats my head.

"All right, well I'll leave them on the table, for if you change your mind." I'm grateful that she doesn't push me any further. She must understand that something happened last night and she's giving me some space to work through it. It's not in her nature to pry.

But when she returns at dinner time and finds me in exactly the same position she's more forceful. She gets me to my feet and makes me use the washroom, helps me wash my hands and face then sits me at the kitchen table. She gives me a glass of water and I stare at it, clutched between my trembling hands.

"Drink." She chides gently, and stands over me while I take a couple of sips. When she sets a steaming bowl of soup in front of me I stare at it blankly. She takes my face between her palms and forces me to look into her eyes, shining and grey, so much like my own, so much like my father's. "You can't be doin' this, you're too brave, too strong. You have to fight it, child. You have to fight." I am neither brave nor strong but I nod and make a show of eating a couple of mouthfuls of the soup, wild mushroom. I don't even taste it. Greasy Sae doesn't look convinced, but she leaves me be, tidying up and shooting me furtive looks before slipping out the back door.

As soon as she's gone I drop my spoon and any pretense of trying, and climb the stairs to the second floor. The closed door at the very end of the hall beckons me. I rest my hand on the knob, heart racing, unsure, but finally push the door open, slip inside and close it firmly behind me.

Everything is exactly as she left it that terrible night when the district was bombed. Her bed is neatly made, her books on the desk. I can almost pretend that she's simply at school and if I just sit here and wait she'll come running in, laughing.

Almost.

Impulsively I pull back the blanket and reach for her pillow, I bring it to my face and there she is: Prim, just faintly, her scent. Choking back a sob I wrap my arms around the pillow and try to imagine I'm hugging her instead, but it's no use, she's not here, she's never coming back and it's my fault.

I crawl into her small closet and collapse among the dresses and shoes and toys, the last small pieces of her, all that I have left of Prim. I curl up in the darkness, her pillow clutched tight, and let the blackness inside of me take over.

Do I sleep? I must, though I remember nothing, no nightmares, no dreams, no restfulness. I have no awareness of time passing. Sometimes I hear faint noises, maybe footsteps or voices, but nothing substantial penetrates the darkness, nothing intrudes on my solitude.

I'm drifting in and out of consciousness when I hear footsteps again and these catch my attention. These I recognise; heavy and slightly uneven, and definitely close by. They draw nearer with only the slightest of pauses until the closet door opens and Peeta is standing above me, silhouetted by the sun. He carefully lowers himself to sit facing me, our knees side by side in the cramped space. He's wearing the softest smile, part bemusement and part something else, I'm not sure, but his eyes look sad and regretful. I tuck my face back into the pillow and he simply sits silently beside me for a while.

"I had a long chat with Haymitch," Peeta finally says. I glance at him and he's still smiling softly, but not like he's laughing at me. "He told me about your tendency to hide in closets and ventilation shafts when you were in Thirteen." His smile widens, "I'm really glad right now that these houses don't have ventilation shafts, I don't know how I'd crawl into one with this leg." I look up to meet his eyes and they twinkle with mirth. "He also said I'm an asshole." I can feel my eyes widen in shock, the curse so unexpected from mild mannered Peeta. He notices and clarifies, "His word, not mine, but it's fitting."

He reaches over and pries my fingers from where they've been clutching the pillowcase for hours and begins to gently stretch and massage them, working out a day's worth of stiffness. It's comforting, I remember Prim doing the very same thing for me while we were holed up in Thirteen. I sniffle a little, teetering again on the edge of the blackness.

"I'm sorry Katniss," he continues, still concentrating on my hands. I bite my lip to stop the trembling; I don't want to cry anymore and I'm not certain I'm strong enough to hear what he has to say. But I have to make an attempt. He deserves that much. Besides, I can't run unless I physically climb over him, and I'd rather not do that either. He continues, haltingly, "Haymitch told me that I already spent five months punishing you for making impossible choices to keep us all alive, and that my memory loss is no reason to do it again." He pauses, and for a while only our breathing fills the small closet before he sighs, "It's not an excuse for my behaviour, but I'm finding it more difficult than I thought, working through these memories, because each one brings back a flood of emotions, of feelings I'm not sure how to process. I was so angry and I'm not entirely sure why, angry and jealous and overwhelmingly lonely. Those are emotions from another time I think, and I'm trying to figure out how to fit them into my memories without acting on them. Do you know what I mean?" I'm not really sure that I do, how could I, but I nod just the same.

We are quiet again. When he finishes massaging my fingers he holds my hands for a few moments longer and squeezes them gently. "I'm sorry that I hurt you," he continues, sadly. "I'm trying so hard to find out who I was, and who I am. Sometimes I think I have it figured out, but then I have a flashback or I lose my temper for no real reason. People keep telling me that I used to be a great guy, but I don't feel like that person very often."

I squeeze his hands back, in what I hope is a supportive way. "We're so broken Peeta, both of us, but you're still you, you're still the kindest person I've ever known." His eyes shine as his soft smile finally reaches them. I feel guilt flooding in; this sweet, gentle soul is apologizing to me when all of his pain is my fault. I find I can't hold his gaze and look back at the pillow in my lap, mumbling apologies as I do. "I'm so sorry Peeta, I never meant to hurt you. I made so many mistakes, I did so many things, so many terrible things."

His hand comes up and gently, but firmly tips my chin. His blue eyes lock with mine and he murmurs simply, "No." I could get lost in these eyes and I feel, not for the first time, like he can see all the way into me, see every terrible thing I've done, every insecurity, every fear, every secret. But instead of being full of loathing, they're kind and hold concern. "Katniss," he breathes, "We can't keep blaming each other. Or ourselves. I want my life to be about more than making up for the past. I want our lives to be more than that." His eyes are pleading now, begging me to understand, maybe to take this journey into the future with him. But what does he have to blame himself for? He understood the Capitol long before I did, lived through two games without compromising his principles, has even recovered from being tortured and hijacked. He's always been the one who was too good. And here is, offering to absolve me of my guilt. But there's too much darkness in me to be dispelled by his light. Too much blood on my hands. He releases my chin and I drop my head back down onto my chest.

When Peeta speaks again, his voice so soft and introspective I'm not sure if he's speaking to me at all. "I just keep hoping that one day I'll wake up and everything with be right in my mind again. That I'll remember all of the things that are real, and that all of the pictures they put in my head will be gone. That… that I'll know who I am. That I won't be confused, anymore." After a pause he whispers, "That I won't be afraid anymore." I reach out and lay my hand on his knee, but he just sits still, shoulders slumped, staring morosely at the closet wall. I know I should comfort him, I want to comfort him, but I don't have the words. I never have the words.

After a few quiet minutes Peeta lets out a deep sigh, and then flashes me a small smile. "Let's get out of here, my leg is going numb and you should eat." It's only then that I realize I'm hungry. How long have I been in here? Peeta has to crawl awkwardly out of the closet before he can pull himself up, but once he does he offers me his hand. I take it without hesitation, my body responding before my brain has a chance to overthink. His hand is large and so warm and I feel tingles all up my arm just from the contact. He squeezes my hand just slightly before releasing it and my breath catches. I turn away from him quickly, hoping he didn't notice. When I replace Prim's pillow and carefully smooth the blankets he stands back, watching but not interfering.

The kitchen has been tidied, yesterday's abandoned soup cleared away, the dishes washed up. "Where's Sae?" I ask. It's much later than I'd expected, well past 6, Sae should be here making dinner.

Peeta smiles before opening the oven and pulling out something wrapped in foil. "I told her that I'd make you dinner tonight." he says shyly. "She was worried when she came this morning and found the house empty and your bed not slept in."

I can feel the guilt squeezing at my chest, physically painful, and I sink into a chair, dropping my head into my hands, fighting back tears. Peeta is in front of me in a flash.

"No," he says, touching my shoulder, "I didn't mean it like that, don't feel guilty. She just cares about you. She's not upset, and neither should you be. I was with Haymitch when she came by to ask about you, that's all." I nod but I don't lift my head.

After a moment he turns away and busies himself with dinner. When I finally raise my head he's setting out plates of meat pie, golden pastry covering thick gravy and potatoes and chunks of what smells like squirrel. My mouth waters, I've never had a meat pie before, and this doesn't disappoint, it's amazing, and I tell Peeta so. He blushes, murmuring that he's glad I like it. I more than like it.

Dinner is a quiet affair, but it always is with us. When we've finished I gather the plates and begin to wash them, and Peeta slides in wordlessly beside me to dry, as if nothing has changed, as if things are as they were before we started working on sorting out his memories. I feel like he's reading my mind when he speaks. "Katniss," he begins, "I really am sorry about the other night. I know you were trying to help me, and I appreciate your help so much. I know I wrecked it by losing myself like that." I make to protest but he cuts me off, "Dr. Aurelius has been telling me for months that I need to let go of the past, to accept that there are things I can't change and things I'll never recover. To focus on making new memories. I'm going to take his advice." He's nodding at me, his expression so earnest, so guileless. "Remembering the past isn't worth the risk of hurting you, or Haymitch or anyone else. I remember the important stuff, everything else, well, it'll either come or it won't. I'm not going to force it anymore."

I flash him what I hope is an encouraging smile. I know I should tell him that he has nothing to apologize for, that hiding in the closet wasn't about him, not really, it was about escaping the blackness that lives in me, but I don't have the words. Instead I finish the dishes. Peeta stows the leftover pie in my refrigerator, then makes towards the back door. I don't want him to leave, I know if he does I'll find myself right back in Prim's closet.

"Peeta," I call him so softly, maybe he won't even hear. He does though, and he turns. His expression is carefully neutral but I think I see a sliver of hope in those soft blue eyes. I force myself to say the rest. "Will you stay for a while? We, uhm, we could sit in front of the fire?" The light that floods his eyes was worth the discomfort of asking.

We settle onto the couch, side by side, and watch the flames. I'm exhausted from two sleepless nights and the emotional drain of the past few days and can barely keep my eyes open. Without thinking I lean my head onto Peeta's shoulder. I sense his cheek leaning against my hair before I fall asleep.

I don't know how much time has passed when I feel myself being lifted off the couch and carried up the stairs. I war with myself a little, I want to wake up and protest that I'm perfectly capable of walking, but I'm so groggy and the strong arms encircling me are so warm and comfortable that, just this once, I relax and let him carry me. Peeta sets me gently on my bed and pulls the blankets up to my chin. I'm drifting off again when I feel his lips so softly brush against my temple. Their warmth follows me into slumber.


	5. Chapter 5

Standing in my garden I feel a sense of accomplishment unlike anything I've felt in a long time. Yesterday Katniss and I finished transplanting all of the seedlings I'd grown on windowsills in my kitchen and studio, and now they poke out of the dark earth in neat rows, leaves turning towards the sunshine. Working in the garden together has been healing, I admit that I didn't think she'd be interested in gardening but she surprised me, not only has she been eager to get her hands dirty but her plant knowledge far exceeds mine; it was Katniss who suggested planting marigolds in between the vegetable rows to deter pests. I hope she continues to be interested, it's really nice to have something tangible to share with her, and an excuse to spend more time together.

Somehow talking while we're preoccupied in the garden has been easier than when we're sitting in her living room, facing each other like adversaries. I've been able to keep my emotions in check as the memories swirl around in my head. I haven't had any huge breakthroughs, but some of the fuzzy pieces are clearer now and a few small details have come back. I'm happy for every tiny bit I regain. I told Katniss that it would be fine if I never got back all of my memory, and that's true to an extent, but I'm really hopeful that it won't come to that, I'm hopeful that the memories will continue to be recovered. Every piece that clicks into place in my mind makes me feel better, makes me feel more whole.

Today I feel strong. Today I feel almost like the man that people tell me I used to be.

Today I want to go to town.

Katniss is in the woods, she left right after breakfast. I know she was anxious to hunt, having missed several days while she helped with the garden. Even though she doesn't need to hunt for survival anymore the act of hunting, or perhaps the woods themselves, seems incredibly important to her mental health. The days that she comes home with her game bag full she seems brighter, more focussed.

Happier.

After I've watered the garden I sit out on my front porch with one of my sketchbooks to wait for Katniss. I'm sketching what I remember of the bakery, which sadly isn't everything. I was born above that bakery, as were both of my brothers, and my father too, and his father before him. It's hard to believe that it's gone. Part of me thinks it's a mistake, that I could just walk into town and find the bakery standing there, my brothers flicking bits of dough at each other, my father chuckling even as he tries to chide them for wasting ingredients. My mother, well, she'd probably be yelling at me to put on my apron and get to work. I miss them all.

The first time Dr. Aurelius showed me the videos of my family being interviewed during my first Games, what they call the 'final eight' interviews, they'd been strangers to me, but now I remember much more of them. Sometimes I even see my father in my dreams, though he never says anything. I can see his smile, that twinkle of pride in his eyes that I never saw when he looked at my brothers. We had a special relationship, he and I. We were so very much alike. What I wouldn't give to talk to him again.

I'm so lost in sketching and remembering, and in the melancholy that sometimes accompanies remembering, that I don't notice Katniss approaching. She sits down on the porch steps beside me, leaning over to look at my current sketch, and my train of thought is completely lost. She'll never understand the effect she has on me, just being near her makes my heart speed up. Her finger reaches out to lightly run over the lines of my drawing, something she does nearly every time she watches me draw.

"The apple tree was here," she says quietly, tapping the space just to the left of the bakery in my sketch. As soon as she says it I can see it in my mind's eye, the old, gnarled tree. The gaunt little girl leaning hopelessly against it in the rain.

"Is it still there?" I ask, my own voice barely a whisper. She shakes her head sadly. _Of course a tree wouldn't survive a firebombing,_ I think, but it makes me sad nonetheless. I need to see it. I need to see what is left. Taking a deep breath, I ask her, "Katniss, I want to go see the bakery today. Will you come with me?" I try to keep my voice light and even but am unsuccessful, I sound afraid. I sound small.

She nods. "Of course, Peeta." is all she says.

There doesn't seem to be any reason to put it off any longer, so after I deposit my sketchbook on the small table in my entryway we head out. The walk is nearly silent, I'm painfully aware of my footsteps as the gravel crunches beneath my feet, especially in light of how quiet her steps are. She's right; I'm loud when I walk.

When we reach the point where I would normally veer right towards the train station, which is the only thing in Twelve apart from Victor's Village that was spared in the firebombing (being too far from the town proper for the fire to have spread), we instead continue straight and I start to get disoriented. From here I should be able to see the roof of the Justice Building, but there is nothing. My confusion increases the further we go, where other rooflines should be there is only sky. Once we're close enough to make out the rubble that is all that's left of my former life I begin to slow down. Katniss adjusts her pace to mine but says nothing. The ground under our feet switches from gravel to paving stones, it's the only way I can tell we've entered the town square. I stand, bewildered, craning my head left and right, looking for something, anything to orient myself with. There are outlines of stone foundations, piles of rubble, a few partial walls. Everywhere there are carts filled with debris, ready to be taken – where? There are the beginnings of new construction too, piles of fresh lumber, stacks of bricks, new wooden frames covered in tarps that flap in the breeze. And everywhere dust, so much dust. A handful of men work nearby, wearing bright yellow helmets, but even with their presence the area feels eerily quiet. Haunted.

I don't know how long I stand in confusion before I feel Katniss's hand gently take mine. I let her lead me to a partial brick wall, but I don't recognize that we've crossed into what used to be the bakery until I see the melted and twisted chunk of metal. I realize with a start that the doors and frames of the bakery's two ovens melted in the fire. My father's voice rings in my head, _you have to stoke the fire hotter Peeta, good bread comes from a hot oven_. How hot must the fire that devastated Twelve have been to have melted ovens that were full of fire for more than 70 years? My family never had a chance; they were killed by the very thing that provided our livelihood for generations. I wonder if Snow thought that was funny, if he enjoyed the irony.

'_Not Snow_,' a voice says, and I look up into glowing red eyes, narrowed at me, full of hatred. Under them, shiny red lips sneer at me, fangs dripping with blood. '_You know who did this, I killed your family, I burned them all, and I'll kill you next_.' Fire blooms all around me, acrid smoke burning my eyes, making the room hazy and dark. I can feel the heat of the fire on my face, on my back, on my tender healing skin. All around me I hear screaming, all of them, they're screaming in pain as they burn. My heart pounds in terror, beating so fast it feels like it'll leap right out of my chest. Bile rises in my throat and I'm panting from the smoke and my fear. The mutt is reaching for me now, she's going to kill me, like she killed my family, like she killed everyone in Twelve. I have to stop her; I can't let her hurt anyone else. With shaking hands I try to push her away but she's as solid as steel. I lash out with all of my strength and a burst of pain blooms in my hand.

The pain seems to slow everything down, and the roar of the fire in my ears dims slightly. I hear a voice calling my name over and over; I squeeze my eyes closed tightly and try to hold onto it.

"Peeta! Peeta, it's not real, it's not real, you're safe Peeta," the voice implores, and I can hear the desperation. Slowly I begin to realize that the voice belongs to Katniss. I open my eyes and the orbs that stare back at me are not red, but silver, and they're filled with tears. "Come back Peeta, please, don't let him take you from me," she says softly, her voice cracking. Those words, she's said them to me before. Those words are real. Katniss is real, not the mutt. The mutt is not real.

I shake the last of the haze away, there is no fire, no smoke, there is just the sunshine of a spring afternoon and the concerned face of the woman I love watching me warily. We are both kneeling in the dust, I'm not sure how I got down here, but my prosthetic is twisted uncomfortably beneath me and chunks of debris press into my knee. I open my mouth to speak but nothing comes out. I want to tell her that I'm so exhausted, that I just need to rest for a few moments but I can't say a word. I slump forward and feel her arms gather me against her chest, supporting my weight before everything goes dark.

There are flashes of light, the quiet murmur of voices. I feel a swaying, but I can't force my eyes open to see if it's real.

When I finally begin to surface again I realize that I'm lying down. I can feel the texture of my couch cushions against my cheek, the softness of a blanket under my chin. Reluctantly opening my eyes, my living room gradually comes into focus, golden in the late afternoon sun. A hand gently brushes my hair from my forehead and I crane my neck back to look into Katniss's eyes. For a few moments I just stare into their silver depths, unquestioningly, until the realization hits me like a train: we were at the ruins of the bakery, and now we're not, and I have no idea how that happened. I bolt upright, the sudden change making my head spin.

"Peeta, shh, it's okay, you're okay." Her hand reaches for me, slowly, tentatively, as if she's giving me time to back away from her. It's absolutely the last thing I want to do, I need her to tether me to reality. She touches my shoulder, then inches closer to me and starts to rub my back soothingly.

"What happened?" I manage to croak. Her hand stills, and her brow furrows slightly. She drops her eyes, but her hand begins to rub my back again.

"I was hoping you'd be able to tell me. What do you remember?" she asks softly. I squeeze my eyes shut, thinking.

"We were at the bakery. There was fire."

"Not real," she interrupts, firmly. "There was no fire Peeta. We were where your family's bakery used to be. It burned down, but there was no fire there today." I nod; I know the fire was months ago, rationally I know that.

"I… I had an episode?" It comes out as a question, but it's not, not really. Obviously I did, and in front of Katniss no less.

"I think so," she says, nodding. "Your eyes, your pupils were really huge, just like in the Capitol." In the Capitol, when she pulled me back from the edge, when she kept me from dissociating. But I must have dissociated this time. Damnit, and I'd been doing so well at fighting them off! A horrifying thought comes to me.

"Did I… oh God Katniss, did I hurt you?" I'm so afraid to ask.

"No," she says firmly, but she won't meet my eyes, and the way she shifts a little beside me makes me think she's not telling the whole truth. My heart sinks, but then she continues, "You hurt your hand pretty good though. I don't think it's broken, but I can't be sure. You should probably put some ice on it at least." I look down; my right hand is wrapped in white bandages. I look up at her, questioningly. "You punched the oven," she offers. I remember now, the pain in my hand, the pain that became my window back to reality.

"I'm so sorry Katniss, I didn't think… I thought I could handle it. I… I should never have asked you to come with me." I'm morose, she watched me lose it, go mad, punch an oven of all things. If she knew what I probably thought I was punching…

"You have nothing to apologize for Peeta." She absolves me curtly, but her hand rubbing slow circles on my back softens the harsh edge to her words.

I drop my head into my hands. "How did I get here?" I ask her, my words slightly muffled.

"You mostly walked, though you were pretty out of it. Thom helped keep you upright." I nod, I'm always so exhausted after an episode.

"Thank you," I whisper. She says nothing, and we sit silently for a while, I keep my face hidden in my hands, she continues to rub my back.

"Peeta, will you tell me what it's like… when it happens?" I look up at her in horror; I can't possibly tell her that she is what haunts me, that sometimes I see her as a mutt coming to kill me. She must see my shock because she quickly clarifies, "No, not what you see, I… I think I have a pretty good idea about that actually." I cringe, but she continues, unperturbed. "Do you know what triggers them? I… I want to know where you go, so that if it happens again I'll know how to help you come back."

How do I explain to her when it's all so confusing even for me? How can I possibly tell her that she triggers the majority of them, directly or indirectly? Her presence, thinking about her, memories of her both real and not real. I can't. I won't. "Oh, well, I'm not really sure what triggers most of them, honestly," I lie. She seems to accept it anyway. But she needs to know more than that. Maybe if she understands what's happening then she'll know when to run away from me, when to flee for her safety. I take a deep breath, part of me is terrified that if I share this with her she'll back away, she'll decide that crazy Peeta isn't worth the effort. I wouldn't blame her. I sigh.

"I have flashes of the images that the Capitol implanted in my head," I start. "Sometimes I have flashes of real memories too, but the ones that the Capitol altered are the most upsetting and the hardest to ignore. I'm getting much better at it though, I can usually recognize the ones that aren't real, and fight them off. But sometimes, when I'm tired or anxious or… or afraid, sometimes I can't fight them. Sometimes I slip away inside my head and get locked in the altered memories. The doctor calls that 'dissociating'. I… I become a mutt." I finish sadly.

"No Peeta, never a mutt, that's not you." I shake my head and stare morosely at the cold fireplace. I wish it wasn't me, but I saw the video when I attacked her and killed Mitchell in that state. It was definitely me. "Peeta?" she continues. Even in my dazed and miserable state the sound of my name on her lips gives me goosebumps. "How do you stop it? The dissociating?"

"Remember when we were in the Capitol?" She nods and I continue, "I would pull against the handcuffs because the pain helped ground me in reality. Now I hold onto something hard or I dig my nails into the palms of my hands. Mostly it works, but not always I guess."

"So that's why you punched the oven today?" I can feel the heat rising in my face, I think I know why I punched the oven and it had nothing to do with reality.

"I, uh, no, I don't think so. I'm not really sure why I did that. But it helped, it didn't bring me back, but it, well it sort of made the shiny images fade a little, so that I could focus on reality. It was you who pulled me back."

"Me?" She seems skeptical.

"You. I heard your voice, your words, and I held onto them, and it led me back out of my mind." It seems a simplistic explanation, but it's the best I can describe it. A slow smile spreads across her face. Her hand moves to wrap around my back and she rests her head on my shoulder. I tilt my own head to rest against hers, and we sit comfortably together.

"I was so afraid Peeta," she admits softly and my heart hurts. She should be afraid of me, I know that, I could snap and kill her, but I would never ever wish her any harm. She surprises me though by continuing. "I thought you were gone. I was so afraid that you wouldn't come back. But you did. You came back to me."

My bottom lip is trembling and I turn my head to press my face into her hair, inhaling deeply before murmuring "Always."


	6. Chapter 6

When Peeta regains his bearings after his flashback I drag him across the green to my house for dinner. He protests, though I think it's less about him being worn out and more about being embarrassed. I'm not going to let him feel bad for what Snow did to him, that's my fault, not his. And while I don't have much for intuition I think he probably shouldn't be alone right now. I know I don't want to be alone either. His protests stop when I hold his hand, even though I'm not really doing it for him as much as for myself.

Seeing him hunched in the ruins of his former life, a grimace contorting his handsome face, mumbling frightening things about killing the mutt, I'd almost run away. Maybe I should have run away, especially after he shoved me hard and I fell in the dirt beside him. But when he opened his eyes, and they were so full of terror, I knew, I just knew that he wasn't trying to hurt me. He was afraid of me. I think that was even more painful. I begged and pleaded with him to come back, crying with relief when finally he did. I'm not sure how long I'd been holding him while he swayed in and out of consciousness when Thom wandered over but I was so grateful for his help getting Peeta home and even more grateful when he didn't ask any questions.

Greasy Sae serves us stew over wild rice, then hurries away. Her house is full these days with so many people returning to the district and she's always busy, but still she comes to take care of me. Another debt I'll never be able to repay.

I haven't seen wild rice in a long time, there used to be a man who sold it at the Hob, but he died years ago and his source was lost with him. This must have come on the Capitol train. Peeta stares at his plate intently, gripping the edge of the table tightly as he does. For a few moments I'm sure that he's having another episode, that I've pushed him over the edge by selfishly not wanting to be alone, but then he shakes his head and looks up at me, eyes wide and a smile spreading across his face.

"My grandfather used to make wild rice," he says softly. "I remember."

"Tell me about him?" I ask. Peeta's face lights up.

"I think he was my favourite person in the world when I was little. He used to live with us, above the bakery. I was six, I think, when he passed away. He decorated most of the fancy cakes, until his hands got too shaky. After that he mostly took care of me and my brothers so that my parents could concentrate on running the bakery. I remember him cooking dinner for us most nights, he loved wild rice, and he used to make noodles too." Peeta's smile widens at the memory. I'd made noodles once with our tesserae grain, they'd been terrible, rubbery things that Prim and I could barely choke down. The look on Peeta's face suggests his grandfather's noodles were much nicer. I wonder if Peeta knows how to make noodles?

"He used to teach me when my father was busy and my mother wasn't around. He's the one who first put a piping bag in my hands. I was so young, too young probably, but he'd pull a stool up the counter in the mornings after my brothers left for school and let me pipe flowers onto the back of a bowl." Peeta chuckles before continuing. "I was decorating cupcakes before I could write my own name." I can see the pride on his face, and I suspect it's pride in being able to remember these details as much as it is pride in his skills. His laugh breaks me out of my reverie. "He used to call Rye 'Biscuit'. Brann and I were still teasing Rye about that years later. Nothing would get him mad faster than one of us calling him 'Biscuit' in front of a girl." I laugh at that too. I remember Rye, I didn't know him well but he had quite a reputation at our school as a ladies' man, and I doubt they were calling him 'Biscuit' at the slag heap.

"Did your grandfather have a pet name for you too?" I ask. He nods tentatively, as if he's not quite certain. "What did he call you?" Peeta's brow furrows and he's quiet for a while, thinking, trying to remember. Then he chuckles, I don't know if I've ever actually noticed Peeta's chuckle before, it's really deep and rumbly. I like the sound of it. I raise an eyebrow at him, but I'm smiling, that chuckle is infectious.

"Squishy."

"What?" I ask.

"That's what grandfather called me. Squishy." He's flushed, but his eyes twinkle with amusement. A giggle escapes me, I can't help myself, and then I can't stop either. My hands fly up to cover my mouth but it's no use, the laughter keeps bubbling out.

"Squishy?" I manage to say in between laughs. "Why Squishy?"

He's still chuckling. "I think it was because I had chubby cheeks as a baby. I guess they were squishy?" His shrug and sheepish half smile push me over the edge and I'm howling with laughter.

I laugh and laugh, and each time I think I might be done I imagine calling Peeta 'Squishy' and start laughing again. He gives me a look of mock disapproval. "I don't think it's **that** funny," he insists. That just makes me laugh more.

Tears are rolling down my face and my stomach aches. "I am so going to call you Squishy from now on," I gasp. Peeta scowls, a look so foreign on his face that I'm overcome with giggles once more.

Peeta rolls his eyes. "Trust me when I say that no adult male ever wants to be referred to as 'Squishy', Katniss." I can't ever remember laughing like this. It feels so good. For just a moment I feel guilty, that I could be enjoying myself like this when Prim isn't here, but then I realize that she'd be the first to tease Peeta, about his old nickname. And he would have let her too. My laughter dies down but the smile stays on my face.

We eat the rest of our now cold meal in near silence, punctuated by my periodic giggles that burst forth from time to time. Peeta shakes his head at me but smiles broadly, eyes twinkling. When we finish I drop our dishes in the sink but don't start the water. Instead I drag Peeta into the living room.

"Tell me more stories, Peeta." I entreat, falling down onto the couch and dragging him with me. He seems surprised by my request, but pleased.

Over the next couple of hours we share stories of our childhood. It's amazing to watch, as Peeta tells me stories about his brothers and father and friends more and more of his memories are unlocked and he has more stories to share. He is elated, and smiles almost non-stop. I smile too; I'm amazed by how little I really know about Peeta's life before the reaping that changed everything. Sometimes it's nearly impossible to believe that we spent 11 years at the same school and grew up only a mile apart.

He tells me all about his eldest brother, Brann, who I saw a handful of times when I went to trade at the back of the bakery but whose name I never knew. Five years older than Peeta, Brann was the good kid, studious and serious. Brann had gotten engaged about 6 months before our first reaping but Peeta can't remember if he had gotten married. "I'd like to think I'd remember if he had," he says with a tinge of sadness. "But I can't even remember his fiancée's name."

There are far more stories about Rye. Only 2 years apart, Rye and Peeta were brothers and best friends. They looked a lot alike too, Rye was a little taller but both had their father's blond curls and twinkling blue eyes, and when they were wearing matching uniforms in the wrestling ring together it was nearly impossible to tell them apart. Rye was funny and boisterous, the kind of kid who attracted trouble but who was generally quite good at getting himself out of it. I remember overhearing the girls in school swooning over Rye, who had no shortage of girlfriends. The affection in Peeta's voice as he talks about his brothers is obvious and sweet.

He turns introspective. "Things were never the same between us after I got back from the Games. My mother was embarrassed by me, didn't want me to be in the front shop of the bakery since she thought I'd scare away customers. That didn't stop her from taking the monthly portion of my winnings I offered them." He shoots me a look that's almost apologetic. By now he's lying on the couch and I'm sitting on the floor with my head tipped back against his stomach. "Dad... Dad didn't want to upset her more so he never really said anything. Brann just had no idea how to deal with me, I wasn't his little brother anymore, I was a victor, and so completely different. And Rye…" Peeta is quiet for so long I think maybe he's not going to continue, but then he does. "I don't think Rye ever forgave himself for not volunteering for me, the way that you did for Prim."

There is nothing I can say about that. Volunteering for Prim was completely impulsive and I will never know if it was the right choice. Ultimately it didn't even save her life, it only gave her an extra year and a half. I can't continue on this train of thought or I'll plunge headlong into the darkness again, so instead I change the subject completely and begin to tell Peeta about Prim's first day of school, how my father had managed to switch his shift at the mines to walk his two girls to school, Prim's excitement to go to school followed by her disappointment that she and I wouldn't share a classroom. The paper crowns with their names on them that each child wore that day, and how she so very carefully brought hers home to show our mother. How she befriended every child in the class that first day. How she practically flew the entire walk back home she was so happy.

As I trail off I realize that Peeta has fallen asleep. When I lift my head off his stomach he doesn't even stir. He looks so innocent when he sleeps, the weary, careworn expression he carries in wakefulness has melted away and he looks years younger. With his curls falling over his forehead and those outrageously long eyelashes caressing his cheeks I can almost envision the towheaded toddler who adored his grandfather and big brothers. I should probably wake him, this couch isn't the most comfortable place to sleep, but I can't bring myself to disturb him when he looks so sweet. Instead I grab the blanket that my mother knit and cover him with it, adding another log to the fire at the same time.

Part of me wants to climb onto the couch beside him and sleep curled in his arms, like we used to on the trains, but I don't know how he would feel about that, or even if it would be safe. He's a different boy than the one who loved me so unconditionally, and I'm a different girl too. But spending time with Peeta is helping me to heal, I can feel it, and I'd like to think it's helping him too. It's been nice, really nice to just be together, talking or not talking, comfortable either way. I feel a little hopeful, for the first time in a very long time. My dandelion, bringing me hope yet again.

When I turn off the lamp by his head I pause to gently brush his hair off his forehead and whisper "Good night, Squishy," before I creep out of the living room and upstairs to my bedroom.


	7. Chapter 7

It's Katniss's birthday. I wish I could say that I remembered by myself, but instead it was Sae suggesting with a sly wink yesterday after breakfast that I might want to bring a cake to dinner tonight. Katniss had already left for the woods and I was helping with the dishes. I think whatever Sae is planning is a secret, but whether that's to surprise Katniss or to prevent her from protesting (and likely hiding) if she knew I'm not certain.

Either way I'm thrilled to make Katniss a cake. I can remember when she would bring Prim to look at the cakes in the window display cases of my parents' bakery, almost every Saturday for years. Prim would be looking at the cakes, bouncing on her toes with excitement and Katniss would be watching Prim with a hint of a smile softening her face. And me, I'd be watching Katniss, taking care to make sure that she didn't see me, and that my mother didn't either. My father knew about my feelings for Katniss, Rye and Brann did too, but until the games my mother had no idea. It was with good reason that I never told her, and that the others kept my secret. When I returned after the games, the first games I mean, my mother was livid that I had 'disgraced their good name' by professing my love for a 'filthy Seam brat'. But what did she know about love anyway, she hadn't loved my father and she certainly hadn't loved me.

I shake my head to clear away those thoughts, she's gone now and whatever she might have been she didn't deserve what happened to her. None of them did. And it feels wrong to think badly of the dead.

I've baked just a small cake, it will be a small gathering for dinner after all. The cake itself is chocolate, and I've tinted the buttercream frosting a rich green, not only because it's Katniss's favourite colour, but also because it makes a nice background for the gum paste flowers that I've made. I wanted to cover the cake with katniss flowers, the flowers for which she was named, but I've never seen a katniss flower. I know that they're white, and look sort of like a violet, but that's not much of a description to go on. I debated a lot of different flowers but so many have bad memories associated with them (I might never be able to make a gum paste rose again!) I finally took my inspiration from the flowers growing all over my lawn. Not flowers at all actually, weeds, but beautiful nonetheless. So I made purple gum paste clover and yellow gum paste dandelions. I hope they'll remind her of the meadow. Or what the meadow used to look like anyway.

I tuck the cake into a small box, I'm pretty sure that Katniss is in the woods right now but just in case I'd rather she not see the cake and have Sae's surprise ruined. But when I cross the green I see Haymitch storming out of Katniss's house, a crumpled bunch of papers clutched tightly in his hand. He's muttering under his breath.

"Hello Haymitch," I smile at him. He looks up and scowls, but stops.

"Boy," is his only greeting. I can smell the liquor on him from 10 feet away.

"Will we be seeing you at dinner tonight?" I try to talk to Haymitch as if he's a functional human being. Days like today it feels like a waste of energy. He grunts.

"With that prickly thing in there?" he gestures back at Katniss's house with his chin. "I don't think so. I've had about enough of her pretty face for today." The way he sneers when he says 'pretty' makes my blood boil. Without another word he staggers away towards his house again.

"Don't be late," I call at his back. He gives no indication that he's heard me, but I'm not about to chase him down.

Katniss must be home if Haymitch was just speaking with her. I'm glad I put the cake in a box.

I walk around to the back door and open it gently. She isn't in the kitchen. That's a bit of luck. I hide the box on one of the upper shelves in the pantry, and sneak back out. Well, inasmuch as I can sneak anyway, I've been told that I'm as loud as a train when I walk. I don't think that's quite true, but I certainly don't have the gift of silent steps like Katniss does.

Back at home I put the finishing touches on a picture I've drawn to give Katniss as a gift, a yearling buck peeking around a tree, his fuzzy antlers just coming in. It's a scene she described to me a few weeks ago; she'd been so moved by his beauty and his curiosity that she hadn't been able to shoot him. She told me that she'd watched him for some 20 minutes before he simply turned and sauntered off, too young to be afraid of humans. I've shaded him with the coloured pencils I ordered from the Capitol, they don't blend as nicely as chalk but the colours are more intense. I hope she likes it.

Just before 6 I head back out across the green and let myself in the back door of Katniss's house again. Sae is bent over the stove, stirring something in a large pot. I kiss her cheek and hand her a warm loaf of bread speckled with seeds. She pats my shoulder gently, "In the living room," she says and turns back to her cooking. Her granddaughter plays quietly at the table with a rag doll; I wave at her as I wander through the kitchen and into the living room. Katniss is standing on the fireplace hearth looking at the stacks of envelopes big and small that cover every inch of the mantle.

"What is all of that?" I ask. She startles a little, as if she hadn't heard me approach. I find that hard to believe, but maybe she was lost in her thoughts.

She jumps down from the hearth, delicately landing without a sound. She's cat-like that way. "Mail," she shrugs.

I raise an eyebrow at her. "That's a lot of mail."

She nods slowly, "Yeah, I know, Haymitch gave me hell earlier about not opening them. I can't imagine that there's anything I want to read in there anyway."

I study the stacks, from where I stand it looks like probably two hundred envelopes, maybe more. "When was the last time you opened your mail Katniss?" I can't imagine getting this much mail in a year. She shrugs again and suddenly I'm sure. "Katniss, you've never opened your mail, have you?"

"I opened one letter." She sounds defensive. I grin at her, I can't help it.

"Let me help you sort through it at least," I offer. She stares at me for a while, chewing on her bottom lip, then nods, and climbs back onto the hearth. Before I can move to help her she starts tossing the stacks, some loose, some bound with twine, over her shoulder. They land on the coffee table and on the floor, some slide under chairs or float behind the couch. I just roll my eyes; she can be so bratty when she's avoiding something. I gather up the letters and small packages from the floor and under the chairs, trying to avoid more flying squares of paper as I do, and stacking everything on the coffee table. When she finally pulls the last of them off the mantle and turns to join me her eyes widen.

"I didn't realize there was so many," she admits.

We work quietly, sorting the mail into piles. There's a huge pile of what just might be fan mail, postmarked from every district in envelopes big and small. Katniss thinks they're all hate mail and wants to throw them all away, but I convince her to hang onto them for a while, promising that I'll sit with her when she opens them eventually. We make a smaller pile of letters from friends: Johanna, Annie, Cressida, even Delly. There's a pile of official looking missives from the new Panem government. A surprisingly large pile of letters from Plutarch, these she tosses into the cold fireplace and I don't even attempt to stop her. A half-dozen thin letters and thicker packets from Dr. Aurelius, I move these out of her reach before they can join Plutarch's letters. She hasn't phoned Dr. A. yet, but I hope eventually she will. A lumpy envelope from the burn ward of the Capitol hospital where we were both treated which she looks at with confusion. "What on earth could they have sent me," she wonders aloud. I don't have any idea. There are letters bearing the logos of each of the new media outlets that have cropped up around Panem, and letters that seem to have come from Games sponsors, those we'll toss, Katniss doesn't owe any of them anything.

I have just a moment to reflect on how odd it is that in several months' worth of mail there isn't a single note from either Gale or Katniss's mother, especially since it's her birthday, when there's a knock at the front door. Katniss stands and looks at me questioningly, but Sae darts past her to open the door.

A few moments later Thom walks into the living room, a bunch of red tulips in hand. He thrusts them at Katniss, smiling. "Happy birthday Miss Katniss." he says shyly. Her eyes are wide, panicked. She opens her mouth, but nothing comes out as she looks up at him, bewildered. Her speechlessness is kind of adorable, but I take pity on her and step forward, extending my hand out to Thom. He shakes it firmly, and we exchange greetings before Sae shepherds us all into the dining room.

I don't think I've ever been in Katniss's dining room before. Though our houses are identical, I removed the table and most of the chairs from what was supposed to be the dining room in my house, converting it into a studio instead since it gets the best light with its wide south-facing window. In this house the wide window faces north, and the room is dark and heavy. Sae has done her best to make it more festive with candles and a crisp white table cloth, and she manages to find a glass vase in the sideboard to hold Thom's tulips. Haymitch must have snuck in through the kitchen; he's already sitting at the table and has made himself at home with a bottle of wine uncorked beside him. Sae's granddaughter Lila sits beside him, making a cape for her doll with her napkin. Katniss stands off to the side watching, unsure. When I gently lay my hand on the small of her back she startles and turns her head sharply to look at me, her eyes are wild and frightened. I lean in and whisper softly in her ear. "It's okay, this is everyone, it's just us. No other surprises." I know I've guessed the source of her anxiety correctly when her shoulders drop and I can feel her tension ebb a little.

The meal is absolutely perfect, the food is wonderful, and Thom and Sae fill all of us in on the latest gossip from around the district. Haymitch is drunk but somehow manages not to be obnoxious. Sae gives Katniss a small leather pouch she made, and inside is a rock that her granddaughter Lila has painted in blotches of bright primary colour. I give her the sketch I made for her and her face lights up in recognition.

I bring in the cake to ooos and ahhs from the others, but Katniss merely stares at it, her eyes shining. She reaches a finger out to ghost along the edges of a dandelion, her bottom lip trembling ever so slightly. Somehow Thom has a slender candle and Sae grabs matches. When they set the candle on the cake and light it Katniss seems confused. "You have to make a wish, and then blow out the candle," Thom explains.

"Why?" Katniss has never been one for ceremony or superstition, and I'm not sure if she's ever had candles on a birthday cake before. Actually, I'm pretty sure she's never had a birthday cake at all.

"Just do it," Haymitch barks. Katniss closes her eyes and sits quietly for what feels like a long time, then leans forward and gently blows out the candle. Lila claps happily and Sae puts thick slices onto plates for everyone. "What did you wish for Sweetheart?" Haymitch sneers. Katniss blushes.

"Won't come true if she tells," Thom says earnestly. Katniss looks relieved and attacks her cake with relish, though I notice that she saves the yellow gum paste flower for last.

Eventually Lila is falling asleep in her cake so Sae takes her home. Haymitch and Thom leave soon after. I stay and help Katniss clean up, she's washing the dishes while I dry when she says, quietly, "Peeta, do you remember the bread, and - and the day after?" Like I'd forget that ever again, it's one of the first memories that I recovered in District 13. I make an affirmative noise and wait to see where she's going with this. She keeps washing the dishes, her eyes fixed on what she's doing, but she continues softly, "When I picked that dandelion the next day in the school yard, it wasn't just a flower to me Peeta, it was a realization, I saw that dandelion, and I remembered the lessons my father had taught me about survival. I took Prim to the meadow right afterwards and we picked all of the dandelions we could find, and we ate them that night with the last of the bread you gave me. After that I started gathering other greens and herbs from near the fence, and eventually I started sneaking under the fence into the woods and hunting, like my father had taught me to. I started to take care of my family, and life got better for us." She's quiet again, but I get the impression that she's not done with this story, and I know with Katniss that you just have to wait until she's ready to continue. We finish the dishes in silence. It's not until she's drying her hands that she speaks again. "You know that I don't believe in fate or signs or anything like that." I nod, Katniss is the most pragmatic person I've ever known, I doubt she even really made a wish over her candle earlier. She turns to face me then, looking up at me with silver eyes shining. "Since that day I've associated dandelions with hope. And with you." My eyes widen as she continues, "I wouldn't have seen the dandelion if it wasn't for you, I'd given up hope sitting under that apple tree in the rain. When you burned the bread that gave me life you opened my eyes, you made me see that life could go on, despite my losses." I can feel tears welling up in my eyes, but Katniss isn't finished. "And then tonight, on the cake, the dandelions… it's like you're reminding me once more. That life can be good again…"

She steps forward and wraps her arms around my neck, holding me tightly. I hesitate just a moment before wrapping my arms around her too. I haven't held Katniss since the Capitol, it feels so very right, her small body melds perfectly into mine, her breath tickling my neck. I'm sure she can feel me shaking, feel my heart pounding against her. I'm overwhelmed by her words, by her embrace, by the fact that she's letting me into her life, even if just a little.


	8. Chapter 8

True to his word Peeta has been coming over every evening, and after we have dinner together he helps me go through the huge pile of what he calls my 'fan mail'. He skims them, looking for anything that he thinks might upset me, then we read the letters out loud to each other. I let him read most of them to me; it's soothing, listening to his voice. And he was right; most of the letters are sweet, if strange, asking me how life is in District 12, asking about Peeta, thanking me for my part in the revolution. That surprises me, I figured after the business with Coin that people would hate me, or at least be anxious to forget the deranged Mockingjay, but apparently not. A surprising number are from children. A couple of the letters even contain marriage proposals, which makes Peeta huff, and I can't hold back my laughter both at the ridiculousness of some stranger wanting to marry me based on nothing but those television propos, and at Peeta's reaction.

I've been reading the other letters too, the letters from people I know personally, who know me too. These are harder; I can only manage one every few days. Cressida is brightly encouraging, Johanna brash and crude, and all of them are filled with love and good wishes. It hurts. I feel undeserving. I can't bring myself to open Annie's letter, knowing that Finnick's death is my fault, sweet, mad Annie, all alone in the world because of me. Her letter will have to wait.

It's rainy today, a cold drizzle that keeps me away from my woods and makes me grumpy. Peeta is in town with Thom, they've been speaking on and off since my birthday, about the old bakery site I think. I should probably ask Peeta about that, he's so good at asking me how I am and what I need, I never indicate that I'm even remotely interested in his life. I mean, I am, I guess, it just seldom occurs to me to ask. I should make a point to ask him how he is and what he's up to. He doesn't have many left in his life either.

It's been just over a week since my birthday, another Capitol train full of mail has come and gone, I've received another bundle of letters, and still there isn't one from my mother. She hasn't called either, I'm not sure I'd answer if she did but that's moot because the phone has been silent. And I realize that I'm angry about that. Really angry. She's my mother, and it was my 18th birthday. Before the war 18 was a kind of big deal, the last year that you were eligible for the Reaping, the year that your formal education ended and you would start to work. Now there's no Reaping and universities in other districts are beginning to open their doors to students everywhere, the new government has made training one of their priorities, but 18 still feels like it should be special. I'm an adult now, legally anyway. I've been an adult in practically every other sense for years. Greasy Sae and Peeta and Thom and even Haymitch wished me a happy birthday, but not my own mother. Not the woman who gave birth to me on that very day. It's true that I never really cared about my birthday in the past, except of course for the one that enabled me to sign up for tesserae, but with her so far away and with everything that's happened… no, I guess I shouldn't be surprised. She doesn't care what happens to me, she's made that abundantly clear.

Suddenly I'm seized with a desire to confront her about that, to ask her why she hasn't had anything to do with me in so many months. Before I can think about whether it's a good idea I've found her number, still on the desk in the study, and dialed the phone. She answers on the first ring, the sound of her voice momentarily striking me dumb. "Hi Mom," I manage to croak out.

"Oh." She sounds surprised, maybe even displeased to hear my voice. "Hello Katniss." That's it, no how are you or I've missed you, nothing but hello. And I'm furious.

Dispensing with any pleasantries I bark "Do you know what last week was?" I wait, but I'm met with silence, which only fuels my fury. "It was my birthday." She makes a little sound, something like 'Hm', but it sounds more bored than contrite.

"You forgot didn't you," I accuse, unable to keep the rage out of my voice. She sniffs.

"I'm sorry; I've been really busy here with the hospital…" her voice trails off.

"Busy? You've been busy for months mom, you never call, you never write, I could be dead here and you'd never even know!" She gasps a little when I say 'dead' and I cringe, knowing that she's thinking of Prim, of the daughter who **is** dead, but I can't stop. "You don't care at all, do you?

"It's not like that," she snaps, but she doesn't deny it. "You don't understand, I've lost so much…"

"I don't understand? I don't understand?" I scream into the phone. "You think I don't understand loss, mother? You don't think I have nightmares every night about all of the people I loved who are dead? You're the only family I have left and you won't even acknowledge that I exist! You abandoned me, again! I live alone in an empty house surrounded by the burned out remains of everything I ever knew. Alone! And where are you? Off in District Four, building a life without me." My voice cracks a little, which only serves to make me angrier.

"You don't need me anyway, you made that clear, and you've barely endured me for years!"

"You left us to die!" I'm incredulous.

"What right do you have to lecture me?" Her voice is surprisingly strong, angry, edged with what sounds like hatred. "I lost my husband Katniss, you have no idea what that's like. And then I lost my child. She was my flesh and she's gone."

"I was more of a mother to Prim than you were," I spit, spitefully.

"You were a menace," she screams. "You with your propos and speeches, I bet you thought you were inspiring, that you were noble," she spits, derisively. She hardly sounds like my mother anymore. My heart is pounding so loudly in my ears that I barely hear the front door of my house closing and footsteps coming through the hall. But my mother isn't finished yet. "Do you have any idea what you did to Prim? She was so bright, she had such a future ahead of her. She was going to be someone. Do you know why she was even in the Capitol Katniss?"

"Coin sent her. To help the rebellion," I answer. I know that Prim, while young, had chosen to be there, had the maturity and skills to make a difference. I know she had wanted to help because that's the kind of selfless person she was.

"She wasn't there because she wanted to help the rebellion. She was there because she wanted to be a hero, like her big sister." She sneers the word 'hero', contempt dripping from every syllable. "She was there because of you Katniss. It's your fault that she's dead!"

We gasp in tandem. Her words hang between us, almost visible, tangible. As if in slow motion a wall of blackness crushes the air from my lungs, I can't breathe. The phone drops from my hand, hitting the table with a loud clatter and the dark presses in. I'm only dimly aware of hands on my arms, shaking me. Peeta's voice from far down a tunnel, yelling at me to breathe, before the blackness claims me in blissful oblivion.

My first conscious impression is of a large hand stroking my hair, and for a brief moment I'm transported to the tiny house in the Seam, to Sunday mornings when my father would gently wake me in the quiet of pre-dawn to go hunting together in the woods. Perhaps today he'll take me to the lake and I can practice swimming, and we'll catch fish, or maybe a duck. I love all of my Sundays with my father, but the days we go to our lake are my favourite. When I open my eyes though it's not my father's calm grey eyes looking back at me, it's Peeta's sad blue ones, looking afraid and maybe a little angry. He's speaking to me, I can see his lips moving, but all I can hear is my mother's voice, over and over again, '_It's your fault Katniss, your fault, they're all dead because of you…'_

I'm sucked back into the blackness again, time seems to stop. I'm dimly aware of voices, faces occasionally swim into my vision but I can't process who they are or guess what they want. When I drift into sleep I relive that day, that horrible day in the City Circle. I watch Prim burn over and over, only now she screams at me with my mother's voice, '_It's your fault Katniss, you killed me! It should have been you! You're worthless!'_ Each time I awaken to blackness and the feeling of rawness in my throat but I see nothing, hear nothing.

I'm not sure how many hours or maybe days have passed when I feel myself being scooped up and cradled in strong arms. The movement startles me into reality, however briefly, and I open my eyes. I'm looking up at Peeta, who is staring straight ahead, concentrating as he carries me up the stairs of my house. His expression is pained, but his arms are steady and comforting. I turn my head ever so slightly to nuzzle my face into his shoulder. His arms tighten almost imperceptibly around me, but he says nothing.

He lays me on my bed, so gently, then crouches down until his face is level with mine, and strokes my hair, murmuring soft words that I can't make out, but that are comforting anyway.

Through the fog and anguish I sense him standing to leave and reach out, grasping his hand tightly. "Peeta, stay. Please." He hesitates only a moment before nodding. I close my eyes and release his hand, and a few seconds later I feel the bed dip as he slides in behind me. He leaves a gap between us, but I don't want that, so I use what little energy I can muster to shuffle backwards, pressing my back against his chest. He wraps his arms tentatively around me and I grasp his hand again, entwining our fingers. He sighs quietly and I can feel his warmth and steadiness enveloping me, permeating the blackness. I feel the softest of kisses in my hair as he settles in, and faintly I hear his whispered response _'Always_.' His breath tickles the back of my neck as it gradually slows and deepens, the weight of his arm subtly increasing, his fingers in mine going slack. When I'm sure he's asleep I whisper into the night, "The first time you held me like this, in the cave, it was the safest I'd felt since before my father died. In the middle of that hell you were my island of stability, my sanctuary. You've always been here for me. Always."


	9. Chapter 9

It's been more than 3 days since Katniss has left her bed for anything other than using the washroom and I'm terrified. She drifts in and out of sleep, screaming from nightmares she seems trapped in. Sometimes she seems to focus, just momentarily, and my heart jumps, but then her eyes glaze over again and she's gone. Only the nighttime gives me hope: the first night she had a moment of clarity long enough to ask me to stay with her, which, of course, I did. I slid into her bed and gathered her into my arms, and she responded, pressing back into me in our position of comfort from the trains. Each night since I've climbed in with her, and each time she's pressed back into me again, seeking that comfort. I can only hope it helps her. I know it helps me.

Greasy Sae sits with her in the morning and evening, trying to coax a bite of food, a sip of water past her lips but Katniss is mostly unresponsive. Tonight Sae pats my arm gently as she exits Katniss's room, an untouched bowl of soup in hand. "She's come out of it before, she'll come back again. We've just got to be patient." I think she's trying to make me feel better, but I can tell she doesn't fully believe what she's saying herself.

Haymitch came by, just once, to check up on her, but I'm not certain he could even see her little form curled up tight in the bed. He wouldn't come further than the door to her bedroom, and he mumbled under his breath nearly the entire time he was here, which wasn't very long.

I, on the other hand, have only left her side to bake things to try to tempt her back: cheese buns, brownies, cinnamon rolls, but nothing has gotten a response. I've done what little baking I have in Katniss's kitchen, which is less than ideal. Even though it's identical in layout to mine it's poorly set up and sparsely equipped. I bake things for Katniss that she won't eat, and breads for the crews who are helping to rebuild the district. Sae delivers them for me so that I don't have to leave Katniss's house.

When I'm not baking I sit beside her bed, watching her. Today I call Dr. Aurelius, Katniss would be livid that I've discussed her with the doctor, but I feel like I'm going out of my mind waiting for her to snap out of her stupor, my frustration with my inability to help is threatening my own mental stability. The doctor is kind, encouraging me to be patient. "Speak to her Peeta," he counsels, "Touch her, if you feel comfortable. Do things to help ground her in the present."

Which is how I find myself kneeling beside her bed, ignoring the pain in my leg that this position elicits from the seam between flesh and metal. In this position my face is level with hers, only inches apart. I stroke her hair, tucking the strands behind her ear. Her eyes are closed but I don't think she's asleep; her breathing is too shallow, too quick. In a low, calm voice I talk to her, tell her how Sae comes every day and worries about her, tell her that Haymitch visited, drunk as ever. I tell her about the things I've been baking in her kitchen, joking about how I'm going to set up her kitchen like mine so that I can teach her to bake too. I describe to her the world outside her room, the lilacs that are just starting to open outside her back door and how already the smell perfumes Victor's Village. I talk and talk and talk, until my mouth is dry and I'm sick of the sound of my voice, and still there is no reaction. And something inside me breaks. The fear and desolation that I've been trying to push back overwhelms me. I lay my head beside hers and start to cry. "Katniss," it comes out as a sob, "Please don't leave me. I need you." I close my eyes tightly and cry, releasing days of pent-up sadness and helplessness.

I've started to drift, exhausted from my emotional outburst and from days of constant vigilance, when I feel it; my hair being brushed back from my forehead. My eyes fly open and Katniss's silver eyes stare back at me, focussed and alert. "Peeta," she whispers, her voice a soft rasp from disuse. I raise my head to look at her, my mouth open in shock. I'm afraid to say or do anything, afraid that she'll disappear again. What she says next jolts me out of my stupor.

"Do you hate me, Peeta?"

"What? No. No! Why? Never…" I trail off, unable to form a coherent sentence.

"You did hate me. You should hate me. I deserve it. Everything you've lost, everything you've suffered. It's all because of me." Her tone is strangely detached, straightforward, no self-pity in her voice. I shake my head vehemently, trying to find words to contradict her, but she continues as if she doesn't see me. "You lost your leg, your home, your sanity, all my fault. Your family is dead because of me. They're dead and it's my fault." Rationally I know it isn't Katniss's fault, the Capitol was behind everything, but her words feed the demons in my mind, they're too much in line with the lies that the Capitol fed me. In my exhausted and overwhelmed state I'm struggling to distinguish the truth, to hold onto what I know is real.

"Katniss stop," I manage, eyes pressed tightly closed, fists clenched beside me. There is silence as I pull myself back from the abyss, back into the present. When I open my eyes again she's still staring at me, but her face is a mask of misery.

"She said it was my fault that…" she stops, and I can feel her slipping away again, back into her dark place. Impulsively I grab her shoulders.

"No, none of it was you Katniss!"

She makes a noise, somewhere between a laugh and a sob. "She said Prim is dead because of me. That it's my fault." I can feel her whole body shaking under my hands. I climb up to sit on her bed as quickly as my numb leg will allow and gather her into my arms. We hold each other tightly, guarding each other against the monsters, real and imagined, as she whispers in halting words about the phone conversation that lead to her meltdown. I'm utterly outraged, I've been angry with Katniss's mother for months, for abandoning her daughter yet again, but this cruelty is beyond what I imagined she was capable of. She had always, it seemed, been distant and neglectful, but this level of malice was something I assumed only my own mother had been capable of.

I rock Katniss in my arms as we cling together. "She's lashing out at you because she's in pain, but she's wrong Katniss, none of this was your fault, you've always protected everyone, always done what you felt was right. It's not your fault." I emphasize. Her body sags against mine, utterly exhausted. I help her to lie back down. She pulls back a corner of the blanket in silent invitation and I climb in beside her unhesitatingly. As before, she presses back into me, moulding her back to my chest. I wrap my arms around her and pull her in tighter.

I'm concerned that tomorrow I'll find her unresponsive again but I'm so tired that I simply can't fight sleep. Before I fall over the edge I hear her whisper, "Thank you for not giving up on me."

In the morning, before I even open my eyes, two things immediately register in my brain: the sun is fully up, and I'm alone. I haven't slept past the dawn in months, it's disorienting, and I haven't slept straight through the night like that in longer than I can remember. But the more pressing concern is Katniss's absence. I'm out of her bed and most of the way down the stairs before I catch the soft murmur of voices coming from the kitchen. I walk in to find Sae at the stove, ladling out hot grain and raisins and Katniss at the table drinking tea and smiling.

Smiling.

"Good morning Peeta," Sae greets me, pressing a bowl into my hands and kissing my cheek. She doesn't seem upset, or even the least bit surprised, to find me here, obviously having spent the night. Then again, she probably knows I've been here the past four nights anyway. If anything, she seems happy to see me.

Katniss looks up at me, her expressive silver eyes clear and bright. She motions for me to sit beside her and I do, gratefully. We eat quietly, like every other morning, but this morning after we finish she grabs my arm.

"Peeta, are you going home to bake?" I actually hadn't thought that far ahead but it would be good to get back into my routine. So I nod. "Can I…" she stops, her eyes wide and fearful. I think maybe she doesn't want to be alone but is too shy to ask if I'll stay with her. Selfishly, I don't want to be alone either.

"Would you like to come and help me?" I ask in a rush, "I haven't made much for the workers in the past few days and I could use some help to get back on track." The light that floods her silver eyes tells me that I've guessed correctly. She nods smartly, and after we clean up our breakfast dishes she follows me across the green to my house.

For a while she watches me quietly as I get lost in the measuring and mixing of preparing dough, but she rather quickly sees the patterns of my recipes and begins to anticipate what I'll need next, handing me ingredients and utensils, washing up bowls and spoons as we go. I don't notice, at first, how in sync we are. It's only when the dough is rising and the oven heating up that I realize all of the dishes have been washed and tucked away already. I recognize what an incredibly good team we make. Not that I should be surprised. We've always been a good team. I smile at her in gratitude and, frankly, adoration. She blushes, but her eyes don't flit away, not this time.

"Peeta, I… I was wondering if… maybe… I mean, I need to, uhm." I'm learning that she generally only stumbles like this when she's asking for help or otherwise making herself vulnerable, so I smile patiently and wait for her to gather her thoughts. She huffs out an exasperated breath before continuing, "I want to call Dr. Aurelius today." My eyebrows shoot up, she's been back in Twelve for four months and has ignored every one of his calls and letters, had completely ignored me the couple of times I'd suggested she speak with him. "Yeah, I know," she says as if reading my mind, "But after the past couple of days…" she trails off leaving her thoughts unsaid but I know what she means even without them.

"Okay," I start, hoping to encourage her but not frighten her out of the idea. "Do you need his number? I have it here…"

"It's not that, exactly. I just, well, I wonder if I could call him from here? If, uhm, if you might stay with me while I dial? So… so that… I don't…" I can imagine Katniss dialing, then losing her resolve and hanging up, she's always been far better at running from her issues than confronting them, and her asking for my help is both a huge step in the right direction and incredibly endearing.

"Of course, anything you need Katniss, I'll always be here for you."

She smiles, looking relieved. "Is now okay? Before I change my mind?"

Which is how I've come to be standing in my study, dialing the phone while Katniss chews her bottom lip and fluctuates between looking determined and terrified. I hand the receiver to her and stand in front of her, in silent encouragement. Once the doctor has picked up the phone and they've exchanged greetings she nods and I slip out of the study. For the first time in days I feel hopeful. We are going to be okay.


	10. Chapter 10

I'm in the jungle arena, calling for Peeta, but it's dark and I can't see him, I can't hear him because there are drums everywhere, pounding so loudly that they fill my ears, shake my head, drive out everything else, the drums keep pounding and pounding and pounding, and I'm running, yelling for Peeta, I can't even hear myself over the drums, I can't find him, I have to find him, _Peeta! PEETA!_ When lightning hits the tree with a massive crash I start screaming.

I bolt upright in bed, my screams still reverberating through the room. Rain, torrential rain, pounds on the window and on the roof, as loud as a drum as I tremble and pant, trying to pull myself out of my nightmare. Eventually I shakily stand and walk to the window. The rain is coming down so hard I can scarcely see Haymitch's house right next door. When an enormous bolt of lightning illuminates the sky I jump back from the window and am flying down the stairs before I can even consider what I'm doing.

I burst out the front door, barefoot, into the cold rain and across the green, the t-shirt and shorts I slept in completely soaked by the time I reach Peeta's house. I pull open his door without knocking and am inside, in his front hall, not knowing why, exactly, but knowing that I need to be here. The house is quiet but for the steady drumming of the rain, and it's so very dark on this moonless night, a faint glow coming from the upstairs hallway the only light. I can feel immediately that something is wrong, years of hunting and running and hiding have heightened my senses. I stand still and listen while the rainwater puddles at my feet. Faint whimpering is coming from the living room. I creep forward as quietly as my dripping clothes and hair allow. Another flash of lightning illuminates him, crouched on the floor in front of the couch. His hands are gripping his hair as he rocks back and forth. "Peeta?" I whisper, moving slowly closer. In the dim I see him stiffen, the tendons in his neck strung tight, and momentarily I'm afraid. Will he lash out at me? Will he try to hurt me again? I contemplate running for Haymitch, but then I hear Peeta whimper and I know he's frightened, not enraged. Cautiously I slide closer, until I'm standing right in front of him, our toes almost touching. In the dim I can see that his face is red and blotchy, his eyes screwed tightly shut. There's a thin ribbon of blood running from the corner of his mouth, where he's probably bitten through his lip. His every muscle is taut and his whole body is shaking. I crouch down in front of him and say his name softly again. His eyes fly open and his body jerks backwards into the couch, as if he's cowering away from me. My heart breaks for him, and again I have to force myself not to flee, his pain, his suffering is palpable, his fear written all over his face. I kneel in front of him, looking into the black pools that have swallowed up his summer blue irises completely. I reach for his hand but he pulls away, shaking, his teeth grinding audibly.

"Peeta," I say calmly, but firmly, taking his face gently in my hands. His hands fly up defensively, gripping my wrists hard, the joints popping in protest. I cry out a little, but then start talking quickly and as calmly as I can. "It's not real Peeta, it's not real. You're safe, you're at home in District 12 and it's raining, but you're safe. Whatever else you're seeing isn't real Peeta. Come back to me Peeta." He trembles and pants, but his eyes stay locked with mine and I can see him fighting the demons in his mind. I keep repeating 'not real' over and over as his pupils begin to shrink and his breathing slows. His hands relax and then drop. I lean in and slowly, gently kiss his forehead. His eyes close, and tears spill down his cheeks. I wipe them away carefully with my thumbs before pulling his head against my chest and cradling him in my arms. His hands tentatively come up to my back, and then he's wrapping his arms tightly around me, clinging as if for dear life. I kiss his hair over and over, murmuring words of comfort as we rock together and we both cry.

We stay that way for a long time, but once he seems to have calmed I carefully help him lie on the couch. When I try to pull away his arms tighten around me, and in a voice raspy with tears and exhaustion he implores, "Stay with me Katniss, please."

"Okay," I whisper, and climb onto the couch beside him. He shuffles slightly so that his head rests on my chest, tucked under my chin. His arms hold me almost painfully tightly to him as he clings. I peek down at his face, his eyes are closed but his brow is still pinched and his cheeks are wet from his tears. He seems so lost and sad, my heart clenches and I'm overwhelmed by a need to take his pain away. Peeta, strong, brave Peeta, reduced to a terrified little boy, this is my fault, Snow did this to him because of me. I push away my desire to flee and wallow in my guilt. He needs me now. In a voice thick with tears and self-loathing I begin to quietly sing a lullaby I remember my father singing to Prim years ago:

_"Come stop your crying  
__It will be all right  
__Just take my hand  
__Hold it tight  
__I will protect you  
__From all around you  
__I will be here  
__Don't you cry_

_"For one so small,  
__You seem so strong  
__My arms will hold you,  
__Keep you safe and warm  
__This bond between us  
__Can't be broken  
__I will be here  
__Don't you cry"_

His arms loosen and his breathing evens out as he slips into sleep. I lay beside him for a long time, watching him sleep, his handsome face relaxed in repose. Peeta is so steady, so rock solid and good and generous that it's easy to forget the hell he's been though in his young life. He, like me, has survived two Hunger Games, a war, the destruction of his home, the loss of his entire family, and beyond that he's also been abused, tortured, and had his identity destroyed. But Peeta never complains. The work he's done, and continues to do, to overcome the hijacking, to overcome the conditioning to kill me, the magnitude of his will is almost beyond comprehension. I'm filled with awe for this boy, this _man_, who projects such gentleness but is the strongest person I've ever known.

When I hear the storm start to abate I gently slip out of Peeta's embrace, pulling down a blanket from the back of the couch to cover him, then I kneel on the floor beside him. He's still sleeping, but his bottom lip trembles a little. I wonder if he's dreaming about me hurting him, doing the terrible things that the Capitol poisoned his mind with. I brush his hair tenderly back from his forehead and he whimpers, I swear I can feel my heart breaking. Peeta deserves so much better than this. I lean forward and kiss him, just lightly, on his soft, full lips. "I'm so sorry Peeta," I whimper before I leave, running back across the green to my house. I slam my door behind me and rush up the stairs, throwing myself into bed still wet and muddy from my outdoor run. I want to cry, but I feel too hollow inside, so I do nothing but lay there and let the darkness overtake me.

I'm drifting between sleep and wakefulness when Greasy Sae finds me. "Up now child, it's time for breakfast," she says, leaning over me with a smile on her wrinkled face but concern in her deep grey eyes. I pull the pillow over my head.

"No."

She chuckles, "You're not doin' this again girl. Get up now." She pulls the pillow away and helps me sit up. Her brow furrows as she takes in my appearance, the mud all over the bedsheets, my matted hair, but she asks no questions, makes no comments. Her gaze is firm, but kind, loving, maternal, and guilt eats away at my insides. When I chew on my bottom lip she knows she's convinced me. She smiles, and rising says "Why don't you clean yourself up while I make you some nice hot grain," then she's gone. I contemplate locking the bedroom door and hiding under the covers, but instead I rise and shower.

When I drag myself downstairs in a fluffy robe Sae is already gone, but I'm surprised to find Peeta waiting in the kitchen, it's so much later than usual, I figured he'd have left by now. Or maybe I just hoped. I steel myself and walk to the table to say good morning, but when I look at his face and see his swollen lip, the dark circles under his eyes, my resolve cracks. I turn quickly so that he doesn't see the tears threatening, and busy myself making tea. He's completely silent this morning, making no attempt at small talk. The room feels tense, thick with things unsaid. I finish making tea, and return to the table. He's looking at his bowl, his meal untouched, but when I place the tea pot in the middle of the table he gasps and reaches out, grabbing my hand. The sleeve of my robe has shifted and my wrist is on display, faint red and purple bruising coming in, the shape unmistakably left by his fingers. "Katniss…"

"It's fine Peeta, I, I didn't even know they were there." I try to pull my hand away but he holds firm, turning it gently to look all around the wrist.

"Let me see the other one." His voice is so soft, so full of pain. What choice do I have but to comply? The other wrist looks the same. He runs his thumbs gently over the marks, his face contorted in pain. "I did this." It's not a question, not really. I shrug. "I… I thought it was a dream." He whispers, shaking his head slowly. "I'm so sorry Katniss." He's choking back a sob now, and he drops my hands, rising from his seat as he does. "I have to go."

"No, Peeta, wait, it wasn't your fault," I cry out, but he's gone before I finish, out the kitchen door. I know I should chase after him, but I'm rooted to the spot, I have no idea what to say. It's not his fault, I need to tell him that, over and over, but I can't move. I'm worthless. Instead I climb the stairs and crawl back into bed, waiting for the darkness to overtake me again.

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

**I'm not one for author's notes but I wanted to give credit for the song, which is '_You'll be in my Heart' _by Phil Collins from the soundtrack of the Disney animated feature _'Tarzan', _and which inspired the title of this fiction (it's also quoted in Chapter 1). This isn't a songfic by ANY stretch, just taking some lyrical inspiration from an underrated song :) I'd like to think that lullabies in a future dystopia with hovercrafts but no airplanes could be Disney songs and old folk tunes could have been written by the Beatles. Why not?**

**Also - I'm writing this without a beta, so if the timeline is at any time confusing please let me know. I don't want to spell things out too much and insult the readers;' intelligence, but I'd like it to be understandable of course :)**


	11. Chapter 11

It was a mistake to come back to Twelve, I was a fool to think I could stay, could build a life with her, I'm nothing but a danger to her, a mutt, a loose cannon that could blow up at any moment and destroy her completely. I pace back and forth in my living room, pulling at my hair, willing myself to calm down but failing. I'm enraged with myself, I hurt Katniss, her wrists are battered and bruised, I didn't even ask her if I'd hurt her elsewhere, oh God, did I do anything else to her?

I knew when I woke up on my couch this morning wrapped in a blanket that something was off. The puddle of water inside my front door that I couldn't explain, the feeling that something was missing, the vague, shadowy memories. I tried while I baked this morning to reconstruct what had happened, but I couldn't. I knew that it must have been an episode, and probably a bad one. It's pretty typical for me to not be able to remember afterwards much of what happened while I was locked in my head that way. But I knew that someone had been with me. Realistically, that could only have been Katniss; Haymitch and Sae don't come to my house in the middle of the night. But I just couldn't remember.

I went over to her house for breakfast anyway, despite my unease. When she didn't come down until much later than usual, until after Sae left in fact, I should have guessed that something had happened. She couldn't even meet my eyes. And when she reached across the table, and I saw my handprints on her arms… what have I done?

I throw myself onto the couch and focus on breathing, in through the nose, out through the mouth. _'Calm down Peeta_' I think desperately, I can't risk pushing myself into another episode, I have to calm down. What happened last night? _Think Peeta think_! I remember the storm, the thunder rumbling, I couldn't sleep, I came downstairs to warm some milk, then…? What happened then? There was lightning, blinding light, and shiny images, the jungle, the lightning tree, Katniss blowing up the arena, trying to kill us all… I felt like I was slipping, then… nothing. Nothing except… singing? Katniss singing. A lullaby? Was she singing me a lullaby? Real or not real? Real... I'm pretty sure that's real. Was that before or after I hurt her? It must have been after. She stayed with me and sang to me after I hurt her? This doesn't make me feel better at all, in fact I feel so much worse.

Yet when I close my eyes I can feel her holding me, we were laying right here on the couch and she was holding me, singing to me. I can remember that now and it hurts so badly, I want so much to feel her arms around me again, right now, to comfort me and tell me it was all a mistake, that I didn't hurt her after all.

But I did. I did hurt her, and she's not going to comfort me, she needs to stay far away from me.

I climb off the couch and head for my study. With shaking hands I dial Dr. Aurelius, it's not my therapy day but he's always there to take my calls if I need him.

* * *

When she pushes open the door to my bedroom I don't look at her. I've been sitting by the window that overlooks her house all evening, painting, so I saw her striding across the green in the moonlight. I knew where she was heading, and while in my heart I want nothing more than to run to her, to hold her and to never let her go, I know that I need to stay away from her, she's not safe with me. So I stay put and instead I continue working, mixing reds to make realistic blood spatters. "You shouldn't be here," I manage to choke out, still not looking her way.

"Why not?" I jump when she speaks, she's moved, silently, and is standing just behind where I perch on my stool, looking over my shoulder. My heart starts pounding; from being startled, or from her proximity, I'm not sure. Her breath catches as she takes in the painting I'm working on, which is of my cell in the Capitol dungeons; filthy and bloody and bathed in the acid green light that I remember illuminating everything down there. She leans even closer, her face right next to mine. I close my eyes tightly, her closeness is almost overwhelming. "Oh Peeta," she murmurs, and lays a gentle hand on my arm. I flinch, unintentionally, and she pulls it back.

My eyes remain shut as I listen to the blood rushing in my ears, to my own laboured breaths as they gradually slow. It's so quiet for so long that I chance opening my eyes, expecting that she'll have slipped away as silently as she came, but she hasn't, she's perched on the edge of my bed, watching me, her silver eyes glowing in the moonlight. "Hi," she says softly.

"Why are you here?" My voice sounds cold and I hate myself even more. She's unperturbed.

"Because you're here." She says it so matter-of-factly that I have to fight the urge to smile. Katniss doesn't do prose or flowery words, she's always straightforward when she manages to actually say what she's thinking, which admittedly isn't often. "You didn't come for dinner," she murmurs softly.

"You shouldn't be here," I say again. "It's not safe. You're not safe here."

"I've never been safer anywhere else than I am with you Peeta." Again there's no hint of melodrama, she's simply stating things as she sees them. It pulls at my heart.

"I hurt you," I start but she cuts me off.

"That wasn't you." Her tone is firm. I look at her, intending to begin all of the arguments about why she should stay away from me that I've been playing in my head since I came home this morning, but her silver eyes meet mine and I feel like I'm drowning in them. "Come here," she says, holding out her hands. I try to resist, but when she softly adds "please," my resolve crumbles, it always does around her. I move over to the bed, sitting beside her but not touching her, my eyes downcast. She turns to face me, taking my hand in hers.

"Peeta," her voice is so soft, barely above a whisper. "If you were going to hurt me, you would have, you're much bigger and stronger than I am, but you didn't." I make a noise of protest but she cuts me off, "No, these," she flexes her wrists slightly, "These are nothing, I bruise myself worse than this every day just climbing trees. You had a flashback, I can't imagine how terrible and frightening it was for you, but you fought it Peeta, you fought it so hard, you kept me safe and you came back to me." Her hands squeeze mine. "I'm not going to stay away from you Peeta. We're a team, and I want to help you, the way you help me. If you'll let me?"

"Katniss, I'm afraid I'll really hurt you."

"I'm not." I look back into her eyes and they're clear and earnest. "I'm not afraid of you Peeta. I've seen you fight off the flashbacks. I know you'll never hurt me." I shake my head sadly.

"I don't… I can't…" I sigh loudly, "Katniss, it's too much of a risk. What if I can't control it next time?"

"What if there's never a next time Peeta?" She's just not backing down. "If our situations were reversed, if Snow had hijacked me instead of you, you'd be with me, every step of the way, helping, I know you would. Like I should have been all along. I wasn't there for you Peeta, when you needed me, and I'm not going to make that mistake again." Her hand reaches up and ghosts along my eyebrow, now regrown after being singed off in the explosions that ended the war. She smiles softly to herself. "Your eyebrows have grown back," she says quietly. Her smile fades and her expression becomes wistful. "Peeta, I'm not good with words, not like you." I want to protest that she's doing just fine but I say nothing, letting her gather her thoughts to continue. "I… I did so many things wrong, so many things that hurt you. But you came back. And I feel like I'm being given another chance. To do better this time."

I'm breathless at her confession. I don't really know what she wants from me, or wants for us, but this little slice of her feels like a precious gift. And even though I'm desperately in love with her, have loved her most of my life, this small bit of trust and intimacy she's offering is enough. I nod at her, and she wraps her arms around my neck, hugging me tightly. I bury my nose in her hair, inhaling deeply and fighting back the tears that burn my throat. When she pulls away she scoots across the bed and flips down the covers. Following her lead I climb into bed and she presses her back snugly against my chest, pulling my arms around her and entwining her fingers with mine. I drift to sleep with the thought that maybe – just maybe – we could make something of this, given enough time and patience. It's a happy thought.


	12. Chapter 12

I'm reluctant to admit it, but talking to Dr. Aurelius helps. He no longer naps during our sessions, at least, I don't think he does, but he still doesn't push me either. He listens and he asks questions in a way that gently leads me to my own realizations. He never tells me what to do though he offers suggestions of things I might want to try. Sometimes I even follow them.

It's during our third call that the idea occurs to me: a memory book. I've been thinking a lot about my family's plant book, about how the knowledge in it kept me and my family alive after my father died. My ancestors had carefully recorded in it the things that they couldn't trust to memory as an archive and a guide for future generations. I want the stories of the people we lost to live on in the same way. Dr. Aurelius is thrilled with the idea and promises to send me supplies on the next train.

I want to ask Peeta to help me with the book, but I'm a little afraid. Asking him to help record memories when so many of his own memories are foggy or tainted or missing entirely? Times that he tries too hard to fill the holes in his memory he tends to get agitated, sometimes slipping into flashbacks. An entire book dedicated to remembering the people we've lost, I can't help but think it'll upset him, overwhelm him. When I mention my concerns to Dr. Aurelius he deflects, advising me to simply ask Peeta if he'd be interested in the project, and allow Peeta to make decisions for himself about whether he can handle it or not. That sounds sensible, but I know Peeta, and I know that he'll help me if I ask, no matter what the potential cost to himself, no matter whether he thinks himself capable or not. He'll push through his own discomfort, or try to anyway, for me, like he always has. I don't want to be responsible for hurting him yet again.

* * *

It's Capitol delivery day today, and I'm expecting the supplies Dr. Aurelius promised he'd send. I'm awake and staring at the ceiling long before dawn, my nerves making it too difficult to stay asleep. I slide out of Peeta's bed, leaving him snoring softly, and slip downstairs to make tea. I've been sleeping here more and more lately, so often now in fact that Greasy Sae suggested I was ready to make my own breakfast these days. She's still making dinner for us, but I have a feeling that will end soon too. And it should, I'm so much stronger now than I was when I first returned, when she was forced to spoon feed me as I stared into the nothingness. Sleeping here helps, Peeta's house is calming, there are no ghosts here. And we both sleep so much better together. It seems silly to fight the nightmares alone.

I find a loaf of bread with raisins in the breadbox and cut a few slices, setting them on a pan to toast. Peeta wanders down as I'm taking the fragrant golden slices out of the oven. He pours tea and sets out butter wordlessly. I enjoy how comfortable we are around each other in his kitchen. I feel like I can anticipate his moves and he mine, much like how Prim and I used to work together, learning how to feed ourselves and our mother. The comparison hurts a little, until I realize what it means. Peeta is my family now. I should tell him that, I think it would please him, but instead I drink my tea and enjoy the quiet. It's Peeta who speaks first.

"Delivery day today," he begins. "Would you like me to pick up your orders and mail?" This is another thing that Sae no longer does for me, though Peeta has stepped in to fill the gap. But not today.

"Actually, I'd like to come along with you today. I mean, if that's okay." I feel a twinge of amusement at the way his eyebrows shoot up. I've surprised him. I think I like surprising Peeta. He smiles enthusiastically.

"Of course, I'd love to go together. I was going to stop in town and speak with Thom too, and maybe we could go to the marketplace?" His expression is so hopeful and bright that I smile too, and nod.

After breakfast Peeta begins preparing dough. Even on delivery day he bakes bread, and sometimes treats, to share with the people around the district. I like to watch him, the muscles in his arms and shoulders ripple when he mixes and kneads, and he gets this special look of concentration in his face, almost like when he's painting or sketching. I don't realize that I'm staring until he quirks an eyebrow at me before asking "You're not hunting today?"

I shrug. "We have enough meat to last a couple of days," I say.

He smiles, and begins to set bowls and ingredients in front of me. "Well then," he says, "How would you like to mix up some cookie dough for me?" I wrinkle my nose a little, I can cook, but baking is Peeta's domain. He just chuckles, opening a paper bag and holding it up to my nose. I inhale deeply.

"Chocolate?" I ask, wide-eyed. Peering inside the bag I can see a large handful of chocolate pieces, each a uniform drop shape. Next to cheese, chocolate is my favourite food. Suddenly baking seems like a wonderful idea.

I don't know how Peeta manages to both prepare multiple loaves of bread and direct me in mixing up cookie dough but before too long there are several trays of slightly misshapen chocolate chip cookies in the oven and the rich smell of chocolate fills the kitchen. As before, we manage to clean as we go along, so there's nothing left to do right now but stand together and wait. Now would be the right time to ask him about my book idea, but I don't know how to start. As always, Peeta saves me.

"You know you can talk to me about anything, right?" he says softly. My eyes snap up from where I've been concentrating on swirling the dregs in my teacup. He shrugs a little. "I can tell you have something on your mind." It's a little disconcerting, how well he can read me. I nod and set aside my mostly empty cup, trying to buy myself some time to think about how to bring it up.

"Do you remember my family's plant book?" I start. He nods slowly, his brow furrowed in thought.

"We worked on it together, when you hurt your foot?" His voice rises at the end, as if he's not certain.

"Real," I tell him. "We added some of the plants we learned about in the Games. You drew the pictures and I wrote everything we knew." He nods, and the small smile playing on his lips tells me he remembers, truly remembers, those days we spent together working on the book, days that were so sweet and calm and just normal. Days where I started to understand the depth of my feelings for him. I feel myself returning his smile, flooded with warmth from those happy memories. After a few beats I shake my head a little, and continue.

"That book was so vital to my family's survival because it was a record of the things that were too important to risk forgetting. It helped my ancestors heal and it helped me keep Pr… keep my family alive after my father died." I start to falter, thinking about everyone who is gone, imagining their stories being lost forever. Peeta simply nods encouragingly as I gather my thoughts, taking deep breaths.

"I… I want to make another book," I continue. "A book of something else too important to risk forgetting." He nods again but he wears a confused expression, as if he's not sure where I'm heading, which is likely given how I'm jumping around and trying to keep my emotions under control, but generally failing.

"I want to make a book of memories. I want to remember them," I whisper.

I look down at my hands, unable to watch his face. "All of the people we've lost, I want to make a book to remember them. Madge…" my voice catches, but I push through, "Madge is gone, her whole family is gone, there is no one left who remembers her but us. Her story is important; I can't stand to think that someday she'll be lost forever. I want to keep her memory alive. I want to keep all of them. I don't want to forget." I flinch a little at the awkward wording, how cruel to phrase it that way when Peeta was made to forget so much, when I know how much it bothers him. I try to push ahead, to move both of our thoughts elsewhere.

"Dr. Aurelius is sending me supplies on the train today; he thinks the book is a good idea, that it might help me. To… to move forward. To heal. And, and I don't want you to say anything right away, because I know it would be hard, so hard, and you're doing so well, and I don't want to push you… but maybe… maybe we could work on it together?" It comes out in a muddled rush. Peeta doesn't respond. He's standing across from me, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed as I slump against the edge of his kitchen table, but I can't bear to glance up at his expression. His silence makes my heart pound, makes me desperate to banish the quiet, to talk my way out of this. To run. I close my eyes tightly and draw in a deep, shuddering breath.

"But… but it's fine, it's really fine, if you don't want to, if you think it'd be too much. It's probably too much. I… I shouldn't have dumped all of that on you. I'm sorry, I just, I don't know what I was thinking, I mean…" my voice tapers off as I hear his heavy footsteps leaving the kitchen. I swallow back the lump forming in my throat. _Stupid, so stupid, I shouldn't have said anything_, I think furiously, swiping at my eyes with the back of my hand before the threatening tears can squeeze out from beneath my clenched eyelids.

I only have time for a couple of deep centring breaths before the footsteps return, and I can sense him standing in front of me. I keep my eyes tightly sealed though. I can't bear to see his anger, or his disappointment.

"Katniss…" His voice is soft and close. My breath hitches in my chest.

"I'm sorry," I blurt, "I didn't mean to push, I shouldn't have said anything, I just, I know they're important to you too, and I…"

"Katniss!" he interrupts. His voice is firmer, insistent, and right in front of me. I can't stop the tremor that runs through me. "Open your eyes," he implores.

I do, and I can see he's holding one of his sketchbooks out to me. I look up to meet his eyes, which are soft and sad, but not angry. "Look," he whispers, nudging my hand with the book. I take it from him, and draw a deep breath before flipping to the first page.

It's a pencil sketch of his brother, smiling. Peeta's talented hands have captured the mischievous twinkle I always saw in Rye's eyes when our paths crossed at school, the soft curls, so much like Peeta's, that fell into his eyes. The pencil sketch is only in black and white, but I know those eyes were the same heart-stopping blue as Peeta's. And along the right side of the page are written in Peeta's slightly messy angled script all of the things he remembers about his brother. All of the ways he misses his brother. I sniff back the tears as I turn the page. There I find another pencil sketch, his father this time, and another list. I flip more quickly through the other pages, his other brother, his witch mother, some of the town kids I recognize but never really knew. When I reach a drawing of Portia I can take no more and close the book quickly, but I don't look up at him. I can't look up at him.

His hands close over mine, curled around his sketch pad, and his thumbs rub gently, soothingly over my fists. He leans forward, resting his forehead against mine before murmuring "I don't want to forget them either."

We stay that way, forehead to forehead, breathing together in the quiet, until the timer sounds and he pulls away to empty the oven. After a few moments I set his sketch book on the kitchen table, letting my fingers trail reverently over the cover, then turn to help Peeta pack away the warm baked goods and

reload the ovens.

When the timer has been reset he offers me a warm cookie and a sweet smile, which broadens as I bite into the cookie and moan softly at the feeling of gooey chocolate coating my tongue. He faces me again, resting his hand on my waist in a way that makes my heart jump. "I'd love to make a book together Katniss," he starts. "I can't promise how often or how quickly I'll be able to work though. It's… it's still really hard to keep myself together when I think about them. But I don't want to lose them again."

I nod, and reach out to lay my hand on his bicep. I feel his muscles twitch under my hand and I wonder if he's trying not to flinch away from me. The idea makes me a little sad, and I rub my hand gently up and down in a way that I hope he finds soothing. "It'll be hard, I know, but we can go slow, there's no rush, not anymore." Peeta bites his lip and blushes, but before I can think about why he gathers me into his arms and hugs me tightly. I melt into his embrace, wrapping my arms around his broad back and clinging. He rocks us gently and I can feel all of the tension and apprehension fade away.

"Thank you," he sighs into my hair, and though I'm not sure what he could be thanking me for I nod against his chest and snuggle more fully into his warmth.

When we arrive at the station after having distributed Peeta's bread and cookies to the crews working around town, the train has already been mostly unloaded and the worst of the crowd has dissipated. A porter stands in front of wheeled carts of boxes and bags, handing things off to the few latecomers. He has a clipboard but doesn't seem to need to consult it. We're still a fairly small group in District 12, though we're growing every week, and the porter seems to know everyone who approaches. My instincts are proven right when he turns to greet Peeta by name. They exchange handshakes and pleasantries as I stare at my feet, feeling out of place and wondering why I decided I needed to pick up this damned box myself, I could have let Peeta bring it home for me, it's not like he'd have looked in it. And even if he had, it wouldn't have made a difference. I'm going to show him all of it anyway.

I'm jolted out of my thoughts by a hand on my arm and I flinch reflexively before realizing it's only Peeta. He grins at me sheepishly before introducing me to the porter. Although I've never met the man he clearly recognizes me. I don't think he's originally from 12 or 13, based on his accent, which means he probably sees me as the Mockingjay. It's a struggle to keep the scowl off my face, and I'm not certain I'm completely successful.

A commotion down the platform distracts all three of us. I turn to see Haymitch staggering towards us, pulling a loaded hand cart behind him. The faint tinkling sound that accompanies him suggests that at least some of his packages are alcoholic in nature. There's another noise too though, a faint peeping maybe? I know Peeta hears it too because he glances at me with one eyebrow raised in question.

"Hello Haymitch," Peeta calls out in greeting. "What have you got there?" Haymitch covers the last few steps between us and grunts in acknowledgement, unceremoniously dropping the handle of the cart. It falls with a bang, and the peeping noises become louder. I snicker.

"Birds, Haymitch?" I ask, unable to suppress the laughter from my voice. I can see Peeta's mouth quirk up too, but Haymitch fixes me with a scowl.

"Baby geese," Haymitch sneers. "Got a problem with that, sweetheart?" He takes a long drink from a glass bottle he's already liberated from his liquor box.

"Why do you have a box of goslings?" I'm genuinely curious.

"Two boxes," he slurs, and I glance into the cart to see that there are, indeed, two boxes with holes spaced around the perimeters. Every so often a tiny beak or a tuft of yellow down appears through one of the holes. "I'm going to raise them for food. If you two can grow food in your garden, I can grow food in my yard too. Besides, I need a hobby." The way he mumbles the last part has me biting back laughter again.

"You're going to raise geese in the Victor's Village?" I'm incredulous. "You know they need water, right? Like a pond… They're waterfowl after all…"

"Nope," he interjects, "The catalogue said they only need grass, and I've got lots of grass." The idea that he read even a little bit about caring for these creatures before ordering them shocks me speechless. He smirks and reaches down for the handle of his cart, stumbling away without another word.

"Wonder if he knows he'll need a pen to keep them in at least?" Peeta says, almost to himself. I shrug, and turn back to the porter who has mostly finished loading our orders onto another hand cart. I have two boxes today, one from Dr. Aurelius, and a second box of the food and sundries that Greasy Sae orders to stock my pantry, as well as another large bundle of mail tied with twine. Peeta also has two boxes, and an absolutely enormous bag of flour which is leaning against the cart. The porter flashes him a self-conscious look, but Peeta merely picks up the bag as if it weighs nothing, though I know it must be 100 pounds, and nestles it into the cart.

We stop at the marketplace to pick up a few things. Sae is there, scoping out spots for her new stall, and we chat comfortably for a few minutes before heading back to Victor's Village. As we pass through the gates we encounter a fluffy yellow gosling that could only have come from Haymitch's package. I reach down and scoop him up, rubbing my nose through the soft down before catching myself. Peeta notices and grins, but doesn't say anything. We find two more before reaching my house. Peeta leaves the hand cart in front of my porch and we both walk around to Haymitch's yard. There are tiny little yellow goslings everywhere, and Haymitch is sitting on his back steps, taking long pulls from his now mostly empty bottle and rubbing his hand over his eyes. He looks up as we approach.

"Maybe geese were a bad idea," he moans. "They don't stay put! How the hell am I supposed to keep track of 'em?"

I start to laugh but Peeta proves himself the better person, again, gathering goslings and tossing them into Haymitch's house, muttering about phoning Thom to get some chicken wire to make a pen. I leave them to their task and drag my grocery order into my house, leaving it on the kitchen counter for Greasy Sae to look after. I bring the cart over to Peeta's house next and bring the three remaining boxes inside, one by one. I have to leave the flour in the cart though; the bag weighs about as much as I do.

I'd like to put away his groceries for him but I don't know what else he might have in those boxes and I don't want to invade his privacy. Instead I bring the box that Dr. Aurelius sent me into Peeta's living room and sink onto his couch to open it.

Inside is a large ream of parchment, each piece crisp and flat, and a beautifully bound book to hold the pages. There's also a thick envelope, and when I pop the seal on it I'm shocked to find it full of photographs. Most of them appear to be images captured from videos, which I guess a Capitol doctor would have more access to than still photographs. I only manage to flip through 4 or 5 before I'm overwhelmed. As much as I miss the people whose faces smile up at me I don't feel like I'm strong enough to face them today despite my earlier words.

By the time Peeta returns I've tucked the book supplies back into the box and set them in his study, not hidden, but not out in plain sight either. We don't need to start right away. We have time. We have time.


	13. Chapter 13

This can't be real.

I'm sitting on a pallet of bricks in the centre of town; construction is happening all around me, people wander everywhere. That is real. The sun is brilliant and already I can tell it's going to be hot today. That's real too.

But this? This can't be real.

I look again at the packet of papers Thom handed me half an hour ago. On top is a deed for the land that my parents' bakery once stood on, the empty plot of land directly across from me right now. A deed with my name on it in bold letters. Under that are pamphlets detailing the Capitol's reconstruction grant program, and grant approval forms with my name on them too. And at the very bottom of the pile: blueprints. Blueprints for a bakery.

My bakery.

When Thom approached me after Katniss's birthday dinner with the idea of building and running a bakery to serve district 12 I was interested of course, even excited by the idea. But I'm not sure I truly believed it would happen. And certainly I had no idea I'd be sitting here just 4 weeks later with all of the documentation needed to begin. An architect from District 6 is going to meet with me this afternoon to help me modify the standard bakery blueprint I'm clutching into something specific to my needs.

My needs. My bakery. This can't be real.

Once the plans are finalized Thom will order the building materials and assemble the work crew. If everything goes as planned, construction could start in early September and be done about 10 weeks later. My bakery could be in business before the end of the year.

My bakery.

I can't stop staring at the blueprints. The front elevation looks so much like the original bakery, my parents' bakery; two large windows flanking a heavy windowed door. I loved those windows in my parents' bakery; they let in so much light, and had let me see the world outside. My mother hated the windows, between the persistent coal dust that always blanketed the District 12 of my youth, and the hand and nose prints of young passersby who would stop to look in the display cases, the glass was always in need of cleaning. It was a job I volunteered for frequently, washing the bakery windows. It got me out of the bakery and away from my mother at least once a day, let me chat with the townspeople even when I was stuck with an all day shift, which happened nearly every Saturday. Even though my father promised each of us boys one whole Saturday off every month it never seemed to work out that way for me. Rye and Brann were always convincing me to cover their shifts.

The peaked roof over the windows and door was just wide enough for a sign. On my parents' bakery the sign read "Mellark's" in a swirly blue script, outlined in a buttery yellow that stood out from the dingy grey-white of the building. Repainting that sign when the peeling got too bad for it to be easily read was also my job; once my mother figured out that I liked to paint she found every excuse to mock me about it. I repainted that sign every year, repainted the door and the window sashes every other. Truthfully I liked repainting the sign, carefully filling in the letters that had been sketched out three generations earlier. My father was always so pleased when the sign was redone, the twinkle of pride in his eyes as he looked at his name above the door. I felt that pride too; though I knew the bakery would never be mine it was still my name and I always felt invested in its success. After repainting that sign so many times I feel like I could replicate it from memory. Maybe I will, it's only fitting to call my new bakery 'Mellark's', and it'll need a sign anyway.

I still have a couple of hours before I'm due to meet with the architect but today's routine was pretty much erased the moment Thom put this package of papers into my hands, and now I'm a little bit at a loss as to what I should do with my time. The garden always needs weeding, but tending to it would leave me dirty and sweaty for my meeting, probably not the first impression I'd like to leave. Katniss is hunting, and Haymitch is sleeping, so visiting with either of them is out. I find myself wandering to the marketplace, which is a number of stalls set up in a nondescript warehouse structure that was among the first buildings erected in town after the war. Katniss calls it a cleaner, brighter version of the Hob, but I never saw the inside of the Hob before it was burned to the ground by Thread and his Peacekeepers, in what feels like another lifetime.

I wander from stall to stall, visiting with everyone, collecting the stories and gossip of the town to share with Katniss over dinner tonight. In the back corner of the building is an empty stall where a counter and stools are being installed. Sae's voice rises over the din with a strength that belies her tiny, bent body. She's directing a pair of teens who are trying to set up a stove in the stall. I catch her eye to wave, she's obviously busy and I don't want to disturb her, but when she sees me she walks right over and envelopes me in a hug, which I return wholeheartedly. Sae has become a mother figure to both me and Katniss, caring for us in the absence of our own mothers. Caring for me more tenderly than my own mother ever did, even when she was alive.

"Sae, your stall looks almost finished!" I say by way of greeting. She smiles brightly.

"Reckon I'll be ready to go in a couple of weeks," she says. "The boys are installin' the stove and counter today, just waitin' on a refrigerator now." She gestures to the rolled up blueprint in my hand. "What've you got there now?"

I'm bouncing with excitement as I unroll the paper on the counter top. Sae recognizes what I'm showing her right away and her hand flies up to cover her mouth even as her eyes crinkle in pleasure. "You're buildin' a new bakery?" I nod and she pats my arm. "I'm so proud of you," she says. I feel a flush creeping up my neck and heating my cheeks as I return her smile.

"I'm meeting with an architect this afternoon to make a few changes to the layout, and then once everything is finalized I'll get added to the construction schedule and building will begin in the fall." Even as I say it out loud it feels unreal.

Sae gestures to one of the new stools. "Sit a bit and tell me about what you're plannin'," she says with a smile. I flip over one of the papers in my stack and quickly sketch out some of the ideas I've been mulling over in my head since I first looked at the blueprints this morning. We chat while I sketch, and then when she turns her attention back to the young men who are helping set up her booth I continue sketching, until I've filled the backs of several sheets of paper and have a fairly good idea of what I want the inside of the building to look like.

I meet Thom at the site of the old bakery, of what will soon be the site of my new bakery (is that real?) and he directs me to a small trailer a couple of blocks away. Or what would be a couple of blocks if we had blocks. Inside there is a large desk and a handful of chairs. Corkboard covers two of the walls and dozens of blueprints are pinned there. A small, balding man is rifling through them, and he turns as we enter, flashing a warm, genuine smile. He looks to be in the early part of his 30s, dressed in suit pants and a white dress shirt rolled up at the sleeves.

"Edwin," Thom greets the man, "This is Peeta Mellark, and we're goin' to be buildin' him a bakery. Peeta, this is Edwin Racine, architect." I shake the older man's hand and take the seat he gestures towards. Thom claps me on the shoulder. "Headin' out to check on the other crews," he says, walking towards the door. "If you need me, just holler!" I wave at Thom, but when I turn back to face Edwin he has set a small holographic projector on the table.

I freeze. It's exactly like the projectors they used in the Capitol to feed me increasingly distorted images of Katniss, of death and burning and terror. My heart rate speeds up immediately. I close my eyes tightly and press my nails into the palms of my hands as the shiny images swim in my mind. I can feel the needle stick, the burning of the venom in my veins. I know I'm shaking, he's going to clamp my eyes open any second now and begin the torture. _No, this isn't the Capitol, I'm safe here_ I think urgently to myself. My breathing is ragged; I try desperately to clear my mind, trying some of the tricks Dr. Aurelius taught me. I envision myself rolling out fondant, the exact amount of pressure I need to use to make a perfect ¼ inch sheet. Over and over I roll the fondant in my mind, careful to keep the edges from getting too thin and tearing.

"Mr. Mellark? Mr. Mellark?" The voice gets gradually louder and clearer. Mr. Mellark, are you all right? Should uh… should I get someone?" I'm not sure how long Edwin has been calling me, but I can hear the note of fear in his voice.

I take another couple of deep breaths, and keeping my eyes closed manage to choke out a request. "Could you please put the projector away, Mr. Racine?" I imagine I've confused him terribly, but I can hear him shuffling and the sound of a drawer opening and closing.

When finally I chance to open my eyes the projector is gone and he is looking at me cautiously. Graph paper, tracing paper, pencils and three sided rulers are placed neatly between us. I feel my cheeks burning with embarrassment, but before I can apologize and try to explain he smiles at me and says in a conspiratorial tone "I really prefer working on paper. The Capitol folks love their gadgets, but I think that's because they lack imagination." He gives me a wink and I can feel the tension drain from my body as gratitude floods through me. I thank him softly and he nods just slightly, smiling warmly.

"I, uhm, made a couple of preliminary sketches," I tell him, sliding the pages and blueprints across the desk. His eyebrows shoot up as he peruses them.

"These are excellent, you're quite talented. Ever consider a career change Mr. Mellark?" he says.

I laugh lightly. "My family have been bakers for generations. I was pretty much born to be a baker I think. And please, call me Peeta."

"And you must call me Edwin," he replies. "Now let's see about making those drawing into plans, shall we?"

Edwin and I work together for a couple of hours. He redesigns the building, pushing out the front wall by 8 feet, which will give me enough room to put tables and chairs in the front of the bakery, a place where people can sit and eat their treats, visit and talk with each other. Though I wanted to get rid of the apartment above the bakery entirely he convinces me to keep it, insisting that I'll have to hire employees eventually and that being able to offer housing as a job benefit will go a long way to attracting a good worker. He completely changes the floor plan though, so it will look nothing like the dingy, cramped space I grew up in. The original bakery's apartment had two small, dark bedrooms tucked under the eaves, one on either side of the main room that functioned as kitchen, living room and dining room. A tiny windowless bath completed the space. It was, at best, a challenging atmosphere in which to raise 3 rambunctious boys, and one that left nowhere to hide from our volatile mother. Edwin adds dormers and extends the main room to take advantage of the larger footprint of the building, creating a cozy 2 bedroom flat with a completely separate entrance, so that any future tenant won't have to traipse through the bakery's kitchen to get home. The longer we work together the more excited I get, the more real it all seems.

When we are wrapping up I thank Edwin profusely for his assistance. He generously insists that I did most of the work and he simply wrote out the measurements. Of course that's not true; he did virtually everything and transformed my clumsy ideas into what will become a truly perfect building for me. As I gather up my papers and forms he clears his throat.

"Peeta," he says tentatively. I look up at him. "I know it's not very professional for me to say this, but thank you." I'm sure my confusion must register on my face. He continues. "My daughter just turned twelve last month. She would have stood for her first reaping in a few weeks' time if not for you and the Mockingjay. I can't thank you enough for what you and your wife did for us. For all of us." I cringe a little when he says 'wife', most of the people in Districts 12 and 13 know Katniss and I were never married but apparently not elsewhere. Still, I don't correct him.

"We were just two desperate kids Edwin. The districts were ready to revolt, we were only the spark." He shakes his head.

"You were so much more. You **are** so much more! My brother-in-law was a rebel soldier, he and his comrades tried for years to organize the others in our district to fight, but it was only after your Games that large numbers of people joined the revolution. People saw your bravery, your unwillingness to bend to the Capitol's whims. In all of those years, all of those generations, you were the first to stand up and refuse."

I shake my head sadly. "We paid so terribly for it Edwin. We were tortured. My family and Katniss's both were destroyed. Our home destroyed, our friends murdered. We are trying to put the pieces of our lives back together, but every day is a struggle. I'm grateful for peace and for the end of the Games, but it was at a tremendous cost." It's difficult to be so honest about the toll that our involvement in the revolution took on us, especially when my innate nature is generally optimistic, but I don't want to hide the pain anymore. People need to know. He pats my shoulder.

"Please know that we all are so very grateful Peeta. You are a true hero. You and Katniss both. If there is ever anything I can do…"

"Live well Edwin," I tell him. "Live well to make their deaths count."

We shake hands and I tuck my papers under my arm and turn to leave the little trailer. I see him wiping a tear away as I retreat.

I walk home in a strange haze, my earlier giddiness has dissipated. I'm still happy, so very happy, but it's a happiness that's tinged with melancholy as I think of the people who aren't here to share in my happiness. I promise myself that I'll follow my own advice, that I'll make a good life here, to honour them all.


	14. Chapter 14

So much heat. My eyes are tightly shut but I can feel him moving against me, hot breath on my neck, fingers wrapped in my hair, his hard length pressing urgently against me. I can feel his hands and mouth everywhere, soft and hot and wet and so good, so very good. I never knew it could feel like this, my whole body is burning, his every touch ignites me, makes me beg for more. I'm moaning and keening in ways that hardly sound human, powerless to restrain the noises that the pleasure pushes past my lips. His hands, those big hands, stroking and caressing me, touching me in ways I never imagined, in places I never imagined. My heart pounds and I can scarcely catch my breath, arching up into the heat, needing more, so much more, climbing higher. "Oh Peeta…" I moan.

My eyes snap open in the pre-dawn dim, my heart racing and breathing ragged. I'm drenched in sweat and trembling, and I swear I can hear the echo of my voice in the silence.

"Are you okay Katniss?" Peeta is beside me, staring at me with sleepy eyes. I can feel myself blushing furiously and I sit bolt upright. Peeta sits up too, concern etched on his face. "Nightmare?" he asks softly. He reaches a gentle hand to touch my shoulder and I jump, then scramble off the bed quickly.

"Hey, what's wrong? Katniss?" he calls after me, but I'm already bolting out of his room and down the stairs. I shove my feet into my boots and am pushing open the door when Peeta appears in the kitchen doorway. "Katniss!" he calls, his voice laced with panic. I turn back to him only briefly, just long enough to see his broad chest defined by his snug white shirt, blond curls rumpled and falling over his forehead, those big hands braced against the doorframe. Those hands... My breathing starts to pick up, the heat from my dream starting to race through my veins again, pulsing urgently between my thighs. I have to get out of here now.

"I – I have to go," I say in a rush as I run out his back door, heading for the woods. I can feel his bewildered blue eyes follow me.

I don't slow my pace until I'm well past the fence, crashing through the brush with no thought to the amount of noise I'm making, probably scaring off all of the animals in a ten mile radius. It's only when I've collapsed under an old maple tree, breathless and nauseated, that I realize I haven't even brought my bow. It's sitting in the corner by Peeta's front door, where I know I left it yesterday. I can't go back for it; if I go back he's going to want to know what the hell I'm doing.

And what the hell am I doing? I had a sex dream. About Peeta! Katniss Everdeen does not have sex dreams! And he was looking at me when I woke up. Could he tell? Does he know? I sometimes talk in my sleep, did I say anything? Please don't let him know. How can I ever sleep beside him again? How can I ever even look at him again? Shame floods through me, I feel dirty, thinking those things about Peeta when he was right beside me, sleeping, oblivious to the sordid images my treacherous mind had conjured. Delicious images that felt so real… No! I can't afford to think that way.

The sun is fully up now so I force myself back onto my feet and begin to wander, trying to escape my thoughts, trying to lose myself in the sounds and smells of my woods. It isn't working.

Eventually I climb up an ancient oak tree, settling on a branch some 25 feet up and leaning into the trunk. I'm not very far from the fence line so from this height I can make out some of the roofs of the Victor's Village. I can't see Peeta from here, of course, and I wouldn't want to because I'm not thinking about Peeta anymore. He's probably with Haymitch anyway, commiserating about what an awful person I am.

The sun and gentle swaying of the branches soothes me, and after a while I'm finally able to clear my mind and just enjoy the peace, the rustling of leaves around me almost like music. I think of my father, how much he loved the sounds of the woods, how he taught me to identify birds just by their songs. Hours pass just sitting and listening, keeping my mind blissfully blank.

I'm so relaxed that I don't notice it at first. A mockingjay has landed on my branch and is only a foot away. I smile as it as it cocks its head to look at me. Then it opens its beak and sings four notes.

Rue's four note signal.

I recoil in horror, shrieking and, for the first time in my life, forgetting that I'm in a tree. I snap out of it too late, only able to register my body hitting several large braches before I slam into the ground, flat on my back. Every bit of air is forced from my lungs. I lie in the dirt, bright spots swimming in front of my eyes, desperately clawing at the forest floor as I try in vain to make myself breathe. As my vision fades to black I hear the mockingjays echoing my scream and I think after everything I've lived through this is how I'm going to die?

When I hear someone saying my name I'm sure it's another hallucination. I force my eyes open and am startled to see a pair of grey eyes hovering right above me. Their owner jumps back and stammers. "M-miss Katniss… are you okay?" I groan and close my eyes again. I'm not dead apparently, but I'm certainly not okay either. There's a hand insistently shaking my shoulder. "M-miss Katniss? Are you hurt? Should I get someone?"

I open my eyes again; the owner of the hand that's shaking me is sitting back on his haunches, looking frightened, his long black hair falling in his eyes. He's young, maybe 14 years old, the beginnings of a sparse moustache crawling across his upper lip. "Who are you?" I croak, the effort of breathing making my chest ache. I wonder if I've broken my ribs again.

"I'm Kip Althorpe. We used to live a street away from you. Uh, before." I study his face a little more closely, his nose and chin familiar.

"You're Penny's brother?" I still can't catch my breath and every word is an effort, but I remember Penny Althorpe, she was a year ahead of me in school. Their family had been desperately poor, even by Seam standards. Kip nods at me, smiling. "Can you help me sit up?" I ask. He extends his hand and when I grab it he yanks me up to a sitting position. My head swims and the world spins violently but I manage to stay upright. After a few minutes I can open my eyes without feeling like I'm going to throw up. Kip is still staring at me with an expression of fear and awe, which makes me uncomfortable. It's annoying, actually, but I can't run him off because I think I'm going to need his help to get out of here. I'm dizzy and winded, staying on the ground in the woods unarmed and unable to run is just a stupid idea, no matter how much it bothers me to have to ask for help.

To his credit, Kip seems to understand without me telling him. "Let me help you home," he says. "You're pretty banged up. Did you fall?" I simply nod, hoping he won't say anything else. It's embarrassing: Katniss Everdeen, Victor and Mockingjay fell out of a tree like a six year old.

I hate the idea of this kid helping me home but I'm so wobbly I can barely stand and my steps are more like lurches. He tucks his shoulder under my arm and helps me keep my balance as I walk the half mile or so back to Victor's Village. I'm hoping that we won't run into anyone and I can simply slip inside my house and sleep the rest of this miserable day away, but the odds are not in my favour. Peeta is outside, working in his garden. When Kip catches sight of him, he yells out "Mister Peeta!" his voice cracking in that adolescent boy way.

Peeta jumps up and takes several steps towards us before stopping in his tracks. Even from nearly 20 feet away I can see his pupils dilate rapidly. Shit I think. Not now.

"Peeta, it's okay." It's the only thing I can think of to say and I say it as loudly as I can, which isn't very loud at all given my inability to take much of a breath, but it does seem to help him. He closes his eyes briefly and when he reopens them they're back to normal, his trembling hands clenched in fists the only sign that he's continuing to fight off a flashback.

"Kip," I say under my breath. "Can you help me inside?" I know Peeta needs a few more minutes to regain control; I want to slip away quietly, so as not to upset him further.

"Oh, uh, of – of course Miss Katniss," Kip stammers, his face scarlet under the olive tone. He leads me, though, to Peeta's house instead of my own. I open my mouth to protest but Peeta moves quickly ahead of us to push open the door and usher us inside. Kip helps me into the living room and over to the couch, then backs away. I think he's intimidated by Peeta. I'd laugh at that idea if it didn't hurt so much. They speak a few words to each other in the hall but I can't make out anything they say.

I lean my head back against the couch, exhausted and embarrassed. Before I can drift off Peeta reappears, carrying a bowl of water, washcloths and a first aid kit. He sits beside me but won't meet my eyes. I can't meet his either, so I close them again.

Only when I feel a warm wet cloth brush gently across my forehead and down my temple do I open my eyes. Peeta looks terrified, but after a few moments of carefully cleaning my head he sags a little. "Just a scratch," he says, setting the bloodied rag back into the water. It's then that I realize why Peeta was struggling; the bleeding cut I hadn't even felt is in the same place where Clove's knife hit me in our first Games. He cared for that wound too, in our cave. I know Snow tampered with those memories, I wonder what version he's remembering. He meets my eyes now, though his still look wary.

"Kip says he thinks you fell out of a tree," Peeta says as he bandages my forehead. There's an odd inflection in his voice, I can't place it. So I simply nod. "Where are you hurt?" I want to say nowhere, I'm fine, but he'd see through it, I'm wincing with every breath.

"I landed on my back," I mumble. "Knocked the wind out of me. I'll be okay."

There's a flash of what I can only describe as anger in Peeta's eyes before his carefully neutral expression is back.

"Did you hit your head? Kip said you were unconscious." He's studying my eyes carefully now. I wonder what he's looking for.

"Uhm, I'm not sure," I answer his question. "Maybe?" Now that I'm sitting still I do notice my head pounding. I reach back automatically and wince as my fingers encounter a bump.

Peeta sighs and puts his hands on my shoulders, gently turning me away. His fingers prod delicately, quickly finding the sore spot. "That's a pretty good lump," he says. "Let me get you some ice." He disappears into the kitchen, returning a few minutes later with ice wrapped in a cloth and a glass of water, which I drink gratefully. I never even mentioned being thirsty, but somehow he knew. He's being too nice to me, after how I bolted out of his house this morning without a word of explanation he should be angry, should be refusing to speak to me. Instead he's sad, disappointed maybe, but still taking care of me. Still being good and kind and rock solid. Guilt eats away at me. I press the ice against my head and sulk.

"Keep the ice on for twenty minutes, then take a twenty minute break and after we'll ice it again," he says as he starts cleaning and applying antibiotic ointment to the myriad of scrapes and scratches running up and down my left arm and leg. "I think you could have a concussion, so I'll keep an eye on you today and wake you every few hours overnight to make sure you're okay."

"What do you know about concussions? Are you a healer now?" I snap at him, cruelly. He flinches. There's a pause where I can sense he's deliberating with himself whether to answer my question and somehow I know if he does I won't like what he has to say. He sighs and moves around me to tend to my other arm and leg.

"I was seven, or maybe eight," Peeta begins. "Brann and I were goofing around, wrestling probably. And we broke something. I don't even remember what we broke but my mother flew into a rage. Her brand of justice was always to act first and think later. When she… when she hit me I… I flew backwards. None of us realized that Rye had come up from the bakery and the door was open." I can see the shudder that runs through him as he remembers. "Apparently I was unconscious when I landed on the bakery floor. My mother blamed Rye, of course. I think she beat him worse than me. My father took me to see the healer in town, and he said that Dad should wake me every few hours. To make sure I hadn't slipped into a coma." I'm biting my lip as hard as I can, trying to hold back the tears. Peeta continues, softly, "My father stayed with me all night. Rye and I curled up together, like we usually did when mother had been rough, and Dad climbed in with us. None of us got much sleep that night"

My earlier anger is gone, replaced by shame. I realize, not for the first time, that Peeta's childhood was in many ways even tougher than my own. I set the ice pack down and turn, reaching for his hand. "I'm sorry Peeta," I whisper. He squeezes my hand just briefly, then lets it go, turning his attention to my hair, undoing the braid and carefully picking out all of the pine needles, bark and dried leaves. His fingers tenderly comb through the knots, never pulling. It feels so intimate, so impossibly good, it's too much like my dream, I want to tell him to stop, but then he carefully separates my hair into three sections and begins braiding it. I'm beyond surprised, Peeta only had brothers and his witch mother always wore her hair quite short, where on earth did he learn to braid?

"I didn't know you knew how to braid hair," I say softly. Peeta seems to startle a bit, as if he'd forgotten I was there.

"Oh, uh, we used to braid ropes of fondant to decorate the edges of cakes. I, uh, I've never tried it on hair before. It's different. Slipperier." His voice sounds deeper than usual and it makes my stomach muscles clench. He ties off the end and runs a hand down the length of the braid, reverently. Even though it's nothing but hair it makes me tremble.

"Can I look at your back?" he asks cautiously.

"Okay," I agree, though my voice shakes. I lean forward on my knees to give him better access and he slowly eases the hem of my shirt upwards. He hisses through his teeth as he gets a good look. "That bad?" I ask, trying to sound flippant but failing.

"How did this happen?" he queries softly, ignoring my question, as he begins applying ointment to the scrapes and bumps I sustained hitting branches in the fall. I'd run into the woods wearing only the shorts and thin cotton tunic I'd slept in, neither of which offered much protection.

"I hit quite a few branches when I fell. I'm lucky that I did though, I imagine I'd have hit the ground a lot harder otherwise," I admit. We sit in silence, broken only but my occasional whimper of pain as he cleans and bandages some of the bigger scrapes. Now that the shock of the fall has worn off I'm quite sore and achy. Sleeping tonight is going to be a challenge.

"How did you fall?" he asks finally, and I sense it's the question he's wanted to ask all along. "I've seen you climb trees, you're like a squirrel, you never fall."

"I used to fall all of the time when I was younger actually, though I haven't had a fall like this in many years. I…" I trail off, shaking my head. He's going to think I'm crazy if I tell him about the mockingjay. I'm not even sure if that happened, if it was real.

"You weren't wearing your hunting clothes. You didn't even have your bow Katniss." That odd edge is back in his voice. I turn slightly to look at his face. His eyes drop. "Did you… were you… trying… to hurt yourself?" he finally chokes out, avoiding my gaze. I blanch, is that what he thinks? That I jumped?

"No, no, nothing like that, I swear! It was just an accident!" I don't want him to be afraid that I'm going to kill myself; I might have wanted to before, but I haven't thought that way in months. Not really anyway. I mean, I still have days where I'm sure the world would be better without me, most days actually, but I haven't had any impulse to act on those thoughts since I left the Capitol.

"Why did you run away?" I knew this question was coming, it was inevitable, the confusion on his face when I fled this morning without a word. I shrug, how can I answer that? I turn back to study my knees. Peeta continues. "You had a nightmare. About me, right? About… about me… hurting you. And when you saw me you were afraid." His voice shakes, he sounds on the verge of tears. I can't let him think I'm afraid of him. I won't lie to Peeta anymore, even a lie of omission.

"I had a dream about you, not a nightmare. It wasn't a nightmare," I tell my lap. "I wasn't afraid, I'm not afraid of you Peeta. I was just… overwhelmed. I needed some space to think. I'm sorry I ran instead of just telling you." I can feel my cheeks heating, I'm glad he can't see my face. I take a deep breath, and then continue before he can think too much about what I just admitted. "I was in the tree, just thinking, trying to… trying to figure some things out. I can think better out there. And then there was... there was a mockingjay. It… it sang... It was Rue…" My heart is speeding up; I can feel the horror of hearing Rue's signal all over again. When I try to speak again all that comes out is a sob.

Peeta moves in front of me remarkably quickly, perching on the coffee table, his knees surrounding mine. I look up at him through blurry eyes and I can see he wants to comfort me, but he's afraid. Afraid that I'll reject him, afraid to frighten me, I'm not sure. I want to fall into his arms but I'm afraid too. But Peeta always seems to push aside his fears for me, always puts himself on the line, no matter how many times I rebuff him. When I look at him imploringly he opens his arms to me and I don't hesitate to launch myself into them. He pulls me onto his lap and holds me carefully, conscious of the cuts and bruises along my body, but I cling to him as tightly as I can. I need him to anchor me. He shushes me softly.

"Why are you always so nice to me?" I murmur into his shirt.

"What?" he says with a little laugh, but I notice he's trembling.

"You always take care of me, no matter how awful I am to you. Why?"

He sighs, and I can feel him shaking his head. "You know why Katniss," he says softly into my hair.

Peeta holds me a long time. I can't imagine he's comfortable sitting on the coffee table, supporting my weight with his prosthetic all askew, but he never complains, not in words or body language. He just holds me.

I nap on the couch while Peeta goes to see Greasy Sae; he returns with roasted pork and vegetables for dinner, and a salve made of arnica flowers. I barely touch the food but I'm grateful for the salve, my whole body aches. I don't protest when Peeta rubs it carefully into my bruises for me instead of having me do it myself. I'm lucky that I didn't break any bones in the fall, but I feel terrible nonetheless. By the time night falls I'm so stiff and sore it's a struggle just to pull myself up to standing. Peeta rushes over and scoops me up into his arms. This I do protest.

"Put me down Peeta, I can walk just fine, my legs aren't broken." I try, ineffectually, to push him away. That flash of anger is back in his eyes.

"No," he says with a firmness I seldom hear from Peeta. "You're hurt, and I'm going to take care of you, and that's the end of the discussion." He carries me upstairs and deposits me in his bathroom, turning on the taps to fill the tub. I scowl at him.

"You are not bathing me Peeta!" He rolls his eyes.

"No, I'm not bathing you Katniss. I'm going to run you a bath, and after you've soaked some of the pain and stiffness out of your muscles I'll help you get into bed. He marches away and I sit, mouth open, watching the tub fill. He's back quickly with a pair of my pyjamas tossed over his arm. He arranges them and a pair of fluffy towels near the tub, tests the water and then turns to me. "I'll be right outside the door. When you're done call me and I'll help you to bed." His tone and expression leave no room for dissent. He stomps out of the room, closing the door firmly behind him.

I stare at the door, then at the tub. I'm an adult, no one can tell me what to do Peeta! And yet, I know that soaking will help with the pain. Being stubborn just for the sake of being stubborn isn't going to benefit me this time. With a deep sigh I peel off my clothing, it's a slow and painful process, raising my arms hurts, the drag of shredded cotton over scraped skin, the pull of adhesive tape as I remove some of the bandages. Sinking into the water is a strange sort of agony, even as my muscles sigh in relief the cuts and scrapes cry out in pain. I draw my knees up to my chest and cry silently. I cry for the pain, for the frustration, for my own stupidity. I cry because I keep pushing away the only person left who cares about me and I can't figure out why. Mostly I cry just to let it all out.

When my tears run out I wash my face in the cooling water. I don't wash my hair, both because my head aches and because lifting my arms that high is just so difficult. Getting out of the tub and drying myself is even more difficult, but I manage. The pyjamas Peeta left for me button up the front, so I don't have to pull anything over my head. I'm utterly exhausted when I'm done and though I'm reluctant to ask for help I'm not sure I have it in me to even walk to the bedroom just next door.

"Peeta?" I call softly. The door opens just a crack, and his voice, tentatively floats through the gap.

"Is it, uh, okay for me to come in?"

"Yes," I murmur tiredly. Dejectedly. He walks in, but when he sees my face his whole countenance softens. He picks me up with such aching gentleness it's all I can do to stop myself from crying again.

I'm already half asleep when he pulls the bed sheet over me, but my eyes widen in alarm as he moves to exit the room.

"You're not staying?"

He looks back at me. "I need to be awake to check on you," he says with a half-smile. "I'm going to paint awhile; I'll be back in a couple of hours."

"Oh," I say, but there's an obvious note of tears in that single syllable. He walks back and sits on the edge of the bed, taking my hand in his.

"Do you want me to stay? I can paint up here…" he trails off. I bite my lip hard, what I want is for him to climb into bed and hold me, but I can't ask. He's given enough of himself. So I simply nod.

Peeta gathers his things, setting up by the window near his bed and I fall asleep to the quiet swish swish of his brush against the canvas. It doesn't feel like I've slept long when he nudges me awake. I groan tiredly.

"Tell me your name and where you live," he says.

"What?" I whine. "You know who I am. Let me sleep Peeta." He chuckles.

"Come on Katniss, I have to make sure you're lucid."

"I'm not lucid Peeta, it's the middle of the night, I'm tired," I wail.

"Humour me," he entreats. I huff out an exasperated breath.

"Fine, I'm Katniss Everdeen, I'm eighteen years old, I live in District Twelve, and if you don't lie down Peeta Mellark and let me sleep I swear I'm going to kick you!" He raises his hands in surrender, but he's smiling. I reach out and pull back the sheet in silent invitation. He looks at me for a long time before nodding just slightly and climbing into bed beside me. I scoot over and rest my head on his chest, my ear over his heart. He stiffens, but then relaxes and wraps a gentle arm around me. I quickly fall asleep again to the sound of his heartbeat.

When I wake up in the morning I'm alone but there is a pile of what looks like several days' worth of my clothing folded neatly on top of the low dresser by Peeta's bedroom door. The dresser I know he doesn't use. Before I can think too much about it Peeta appears with a tray bearing cheese buns and tea, my favourite breakfast.

It takes more than a week before I can venture into my woods again. I stay at Peeta's house the entire time, and he takes care of me. He fusses over my injuries and I let him. I keep him company while he bakes. He takes over making dinner for us every night. We work together on the memory book, cling to each other as we remember and mourn. He never mentions my behaviour that day and neither do I but the tension between us gradually dissipates and we fall back into being comfortable together. When I finally do leave with my bow slung over my shoulder he makes me promise to come back early and to not overdo it, and I can't find it in myself to be annoyed.

Listening to his easy laugh, watching his blue eyes twinkle from under the mop of curls that falls over his forehead, I can't remember why, exactly, that dream upset me so much. I mean, Peeta is so handsome, and I'm only human. Is it really that bad to be attracted to him? I know he can't love me like before, the hijacking destroyed that, but he's so sweet, and he obviously cares for me deeply, as I do for him. What am I so afraid of?


	15. Chapter 15

When I was a kid my eldest brother Brann's birthday was a big celebration. He was, by far, my mother's favourite, the perfect son born to inherit the family business and cement my parents' marriage, such as it was. He was born near the Harvest Festival, when there was always a little extra food and a little more money, when people in the districts were lighter, happier. The Harvest Festival was one of the few highlights of the year, and Brann's birthday was bound inextricably with all of that gladness.

Rye was born in the spring, when everything was green and hopeful, when the district was congratulating itself for surviving another long winter. Celebrating Rye's birthday was mandatory; he ensured that no one ever had a chance to forget it. The quintessential middle child, Rye was funny and boisterous, outgoing and loud, but his joy was always infectious. In good years there might be a picnic supper to celebrate, in bad a quiet family dinner, but always there would be cookies, delicate buttery shortbread that I still think of as 'Rye's cookies'.

And then there's me. My birthday was never celebrated because, in the first of a long list of ways that I disappointed my mother, I was born on Reaping Day. My birthday warranted only whispered sentiments from my father and brothers, and never when my mother was within earshot. There was one year, when I was perhaps five, that I asked why Brann and Rye had birthdays and I did not. My ear rang for days afterwards from the slap my mother answered my question with. My father took me out to the meadow late that evening, after the Reaping, when the bakery was closed and the houses in town all shut up tight as the people within gave thanks (all except two of course). We sat among the tall grasses and wildflowers and he told me that long ago, before the Dark Days, the summer solstice had been a time of celebration, that people would mark the longest day of the year with bonfires and feasts and it was a joyous occasion. Then he gave me a single sugar cookie, frosted with a yellow sun, and wished me a happy birthday. He snuck me sugar cookies frosted with suns for a couple more years, until Brann turned 12. After that I never celebrated my birthday again.

My last two birthdays were spent on a train, hurtling towards the Capitol and certain death, but they were also spent with Katniss. Even though she hadn't known it was my birthday, and despite the tragic circumstances, spending my birthday with her was something my younger self had long dreamed of.

There will be no sugar cookies from my father today, but neither will there be pens of frightened children or train rides. Without opening my eyes I can also tell that there'll be no Katniss either, I've become so attuned to her presence that I can sense her absence even before I'm fully awake. I'm not surprised, Reaping Day meant something different to her all of those years, and as the day has drawn closer she's been more and more withdrawn. Probably she'll spend the day crying in her woods. I don't blame her, and besides, I've never told her when my birthday is. Not that she's asked.

I spend my morning doing what I've done nearly every day since my return, baking for the workers and for my little makeshift family in Victor's Village. In a fit of nostalgia I also bake sugar cookies, and contemplate frosting them with yellow suns. Maybe when I return from my rounds.

When I set out to deliver my bread to the workers and returnees I quickly discover that this won't be an ordinary day. Virtually no one is working on the rebuild today, preferring, perhaps, to be with their families. The marketplace too is mostly empty, just a couple of stalls open, Greasy Sae is nowhere to be found. I try stopping by a few of the houses but only a couple of doors open for me. By the time I drag myself home I'm grumpy and annoyed, and even though it's only early afternoon I'm thinking about how nice a nap would be. Even nicer if Katniss would join me, I think longingly. But when I walk into my house, arms laden with bread I couldn't distribute I find not Katniss, but Haymitch of all people sitting in my kitchen. For a moment I can do nothing but blink. He grunts.

"Where's the girl?"

I shrug. "She was gone before I got up."

He nods, "Probably in the woods, shooting something." I imagine she's actually out there crying but I don't correct him. I wait for him to continue, to tell me why he's here, but he simply sits, expectantly.

With a sigh I ask "Have you eaten?" His shrug tells me he has not. I'm pretty sure Haymitch only eats when Katniss, Sae or I feed him.

I pull out some blackberry muffins I made this morning and cold tea from the refrigerator. He waves off the tea but inhales a couple of muffins, seemingly without chewing. Haymitch never reveals the reason for his visit, simply sitting with me, eating muffins and occasionally offering commentary on this or that. I fill in the silence by talking about town, about my decision to rebuild the bakery and other safe topics. Neither of us mentions Reaping Day, or the pall that seems to hang over the district. A few minutes before 4 he rises, grunts out his thanks and leaves. I remain at the table awhile longer, shaking my head. Haymitch just gets stranger and stranger…

It's too late now for that nap. I'm not sure if Katniss will be here for dinner, if she has hunted at all or if she's spent the day surrendering to her grief. I wish she would communicate more with me, I feel like I could help, could at least comfort her, but she remains tightly guarded. I wonder, not for the first time, if she will ever learn how to trust. Not that I blame her reticence, she has had so few in her life who haven't let her down, and all of those are now gone.

I'm still sitting at the table, lost in my thoughts, when Katniss walks in. She's tucks her bow into the corner and I can see that her game bag is empty, but when she walks over to me her eyes are clear, not heavy and red-rimmed like they so often are after a day spent in the woods but not hunting. In fact, she smiles. I return it eagerly.

"I'm glad you're here Peeta. I, uh, I want to... to show you something." she stammers. It's kind of adorable how nervous she seems. When she holds out her hand to me I take it and follow her, but when she heads towards the door I pull back a little. I'm drained, bordering on exhausted actually, which I tell her. She chews on her bottom lip and those silver eyes flash the way they do when she's having an internal conversation. I wait her out.

"Please Peeta," she says softly. "It's not that far and I really think you'll like it." She had me at please. I push aside my fatigue and we set out, but slowly. Katniss grabs my hand as we walk and that simple action melts away a lot of my trepidation.

After a while I realize that we're heading towards the meadow. I've been thinking a lot about the meadow today, about that long ago talk with my father over sunshine frosted cookies. It no longer looks like it did when I was a child, but neither does it look like it did before my return to 12 when the meadow was a huge open pit, or so Thom tells me. With the mass grave there now filled, the grasses and wildflowers are reclaiming the bare earth, reminding me that despite everything life goes on.

We're not far from the meadow when I see the smoke. I stiffen and stop, and shiny images start to claw into the edges of my vision: the district burning, my parents burning, everything burning. Katniss is in front of me in a flash, locking her eyes with mine, holding my face between her hands. "Not real Peeta, not real, not real. You're safe Peeta."

"Burning," is the only word I can choke out as I struggle to stay in reality.

"No," she murmurs softly, her thumbs stroking my cheeks. "It's just a cooking fire, you're safe Peeta, you're safe."

My mind clings to her voice as I take slow deep breaths. The world comes back into focus, her silver eyes soft and locked onto mine. When she sees I'm back she wraps her arms around me and we hold each other, rocking gently in the sunshine. Too soon she pulls back to look into my face. I answer her unasked question. "I'm okay." She kisses my cheek, a delicate whisper of soft lips on skin which is enough to banish the last bits of haze from my mind.

We move closer to the source of the smoke and I can smell that she's right, someone is roasting meat. I haven't been hungry today but the scent makes my mouth water. I can hear the faint thrum of voices growing louder with every step too, but nothing could have prepared me for what appears before us as we crest the knoll just before our destination.

The meadow is full of people. Men and women, children too, our neighbours and friends, the very people I missed seeing this morning. They are all standing chatting amongst themselves, or sitting on blankets in the grass, and a pleasant hum of conversation fills the air. I just have time to notice the tables loaded with food and the spit turning over a large open fire before some of the townspeople notice our approach and begin to clap. The others follow suit, and there are cheers as people begin walking towards us. I look at Katniss, shocked. She smiles slyly. "Happy Birthday Peeta," she murmurs. My jaw drops but I can't ask any of the questions swirling in my head because I'm enveloped by people, surrounding me, hugging me and clapping me on the back, all with smiles and good wishes. Katniss slips away as I greet everyone, my neighbours, my friends.

I've never had a birthday party before, but even if I had there is no way it could ever have compared to this. At least 60 people chose to come out and celebrate with me, for me, turning a day that used to be marked by terror into a day of beauty and community. I am humbled and overjoyed as I try to spend at least a little time with every person there. We all picnic on wild boar that Katniss has spent the entire day roasting, huge pots of stew from Sae and various other dishes and treats that the community brought to contribute. At some point Thom gathered the bread and muffins I'd been unable to deliver earlier and those were added to the tables too.

There is feasting and laughter and conversation until twilight falls and people begin to gather up tables and trays, slipping home with full bellies and, I think, full hearts. Finally all that remains in the now quiet meadow with me is my makeshift family: Haymitch, Sae and Katniss. I'm overcome with emotion, attempting to hug each in turn and thanking them profusely. Haymitch staggers off before I can embrace him, Sae smiles and pats my cheek affectionately. "Katniss did all of the plannin'," she explains.

Katniss flushes crimson and deflects, mentioning all of the others who contributed but I'm not listening. I can't tear my eyes away from her; my heart is so full it's almost painful. She did all of this for me?

The walk home is quiet, I'm exhausted and overwhelmed, and happier than I can ever remember being. When we reach Victor's Village Katniss leads us to my house, for which I'm grateful. We mount the stairs silently and I can do nothing more than take off my shoes and pants, falling into bed in boxers and my t-shirt. Katniss changes into sleep shorts and climbs in beside me. I have a million questions but it's a struggle to get out just one. "How did you know?"

"That it's your birthday?" she replies, rolling towards me and settling her head against my chest. I nod, wondering if she can hear my heart speeding up. "Effie," she says simply, explaining nothing.

"Effie?" I momentarily forget about my exhaustion. "Effie?" I'm utterly bewildered. Katniss laughs, a sound so sweet and musical I'd do anything to hear it again. She shifts to prop her chin on my chest and look at me.

"Yes, Effie. After my birthday I asked Haymitch when your birthday was, he had no clue, of course but he thought that Effie might still have some records. So he called her up. Apparently she cried when she told him, and he had to talk her out of sending you some elaborate and probably bizarre birthday present." She's grinning widely at that, probably thinking about what kind of strange, possibly feather-covered item Effie would think appropriate for a gift.

"And you planned all of this for me?" I ask, reaching out tentatively to run my hand along her messy braid. I have a huge lump in my throat; she went to so much effort just for me. She shrugs.

"You probably didn't get to celebrate your birthday much as a kid did you? Being born on Reaping Day," she asks. I shake my head.

"Pretty much never, actually," I admit. I decide to tell her about the year that my dad took me to the meadow, and the tale he wove of solstice celebrations of old. Her eyes widen.

"Wow, we had a solstice celebration for you, didn't we, with the bonfire and the food? I had no idea!" She's quiet a moment, thoughtful, then asks, softly and uncertainly, "Was it okay?"

I tighten my arms around her, wondering how she could even need to ask. "Oh Katniss," my voice shakes. "This was the best day of my life. I couldn't have imagined a more wonderful celebration. Thank you so much." I can feel her relax in my arms, as if she'd been holding her breath. She leans up and kisses me, her soft lips familiar. Except that this time there are no cameras, no one is watching. There's only us, curled up together in my bed, kissing. It feels like coming home. It feels real. Our mouths move slowly, almost tentatively together, so unlike the kisses we shared for the Capitol. So much better. Katniss breaks the kiss first, pulling back and staring intently into my eyes, her pupils dilated and her nostrils flaring as she breathes heavily.

"Happy birthday Peeta," she whispers after a few moments, and then settles her head back onto my chest. A feeling of calm and contentment fills me as I hold her snugly against me, listening to her breathing even out. We both fall asleep quickly and the nightmares don't dare intrude on our serenity.


	16. Chapter 16

I slip through the gap in the fence nearest to Victor's Village, my game bag full almost to bursting. Today was an almost perfect day for hunting, the woods green and alive, the morning not yet hot enough to drive the animals into hiding. I've brought in more than enough game today to not only last a few days, but also to share, and I'm looking forward to bringing some to Greasy Sae after I clean it. I even have strawberries, tiny sweet wild strawberries from a patch I stumbled upon accidentally while tracking a doe. I missed the doe, but the strawberries are a decent consolation.

As I'm walking towards Peeta's house I see him sitting on his porch. As soon as he notices me he stands and jogs over to me. "Hi," I offer, almost as a question. Peeta is grinning and is a little out of breath, clutching a couple of papers in his hand.

"I got a letter from Delly," he says, waving the papers in his hand.

"Okay?" I like Delly, she's sweet and supportive, and I'll always be grateful for the help she gave Peeta in recovering his memory, but I don't think we'll ever be close. I'm not sure why he's so excited to tell me that she's writing to him.

"She's engaged, and she's coming for a visit." He's beaming. It occurs to me that Peeta is lonely here. There just aren't that many people in the district anymore, though the number is growing steadily.

"Engaged? To someone from Thirteen?" I ask. As far as I know, Delly and her little brother stayed in 13 after the war ended. Until this moment I hadn't even realized that Peeta was keeping in touch with her. I feel a strange little flash of jealousy, but I force it away quickly.

"Well, to someone she met in Thirteen anyway," he says. "Though Delly says he was originally from District Ten."

"Dalton?" I'm sure my eyes are wide; she couldn't be engaged to Dalton, could she? Peeta startles, his mouth dropping open a little.

"You, uh, you know him?" he asks. I forget sometimes that for almost all of Peeta's stay in District 13 he was confined to a hospital room, apart from the guards and the medical staff he really didn't meet many people.

"Yes, I mean, not very well, but he's a good man, made it to Thirteen on foot, all the way from District Ten, alone. He's a little older than we are though." I'm actually not sure how old Dalton is, but I think he must be in his late 20s, or maybe early 30s. "He performed Annie and Finnick's marriage ceremony." My voice trails off at the end. Remembering that day is so difficult in so many ways. I remember how happy Finnick was, and now he's gone. I remember dancing with Prim, she was so joyful, and now she's gone. And, selfishly, I remember that day as the one where I spoke with Peeta for the first time after his hijacking; I remember the flicker of hope when I heard he wanted to see me, followed by desolation as I confronted the boy who fell out of love with me. I squeeze my eyes tightly shut, willing away the tears that are threatening.

Peeta is silent too; I wonder what he's remembering about that day. Probably not the same things as me. Finally after a minute he clears his throat and continues "They're coming to District Twelve, next week. They're going to stay with me." He sounds a little tentative, like he's not sure how I'll react. Like he's afraid I'll disappear during their visit. _It certainly wouldn't be out of character for me_ I think wryly.

I shove down the lingering sadness and smile at him. "I'd like to see them too, if you don't mind me hanging around." His face breaks into a huge smile.

"I'd love that," he grins, "And I could definitely use your help hosting them. I've never hosted people before."

"You take care of me all of the time," I counter. "Delly will definitely be easier than that."

* * *

Peeta takes hosting, like everything else he does, seriously. He spends the week leading up to Delly and Dalton's arrival airing out and freshening up one of his spare bedrooms, planning meals, baking treats to tuck into the freezer. His single mindedness would be annoying if his enthusiasm wasn't so infectious. I keep him company, and help out where I can.

Their train arrives in the afternoon, Peeta and I meet them at the station. When Delly sees us she squeals and runs directly into Peeta's arms. That little pang of jealousy flares up again as I watch him lift her off the ground, his blue eyes twinkling. The months since the end of the war have been kind to Delly, she's healthy and curvy, her blond curls shine, she's radiant. I fiddle with the end of my braid self-consciously. Then I feel a hand on my arm and I'm looking up into Dalton's soft brown eyes. He hasn't changed a bit; all of that time living underground couldn't undo the deep tan of his skin from years of working on cattle ranches. "Soldier Everdeen," he begins with a grin, "We meet again."

I smirk, "It's just plain Katniss now."

Dalton pulls me into a hug. "I'm so pleased to see you Just Plain Katniss."

I laugh despite myself. "You too Dalton." I say, genuinely, pulling back to look up into his handsome face. Then Delly is launching herself at me, wrapping me in a tight hug, babbling about how good it is to see us, how wonderful we look, what fun we're going to have. I see Peeta and Dalton shaking hands out of the corner of my eye before Delly loops an arm around my shoulder and starts leading me from the platform, talking a mile a minute, leaving Peeta and Dalton to gather the bags.

Peeta shows them to the room they'll be staying in, on the main floor of his house, while I head into the kitchen to check on the venison roast I'd put into the oven before we left. When Delly joins me, she's carrying several bottles. "Dandelion wine," she says after I raise an eyebrow at her. "Dalton made it. After the war they lifted most of the restrictions in District 13 and we could all come and go as we pleased. Wasn't easy finding bottles, but he managed somehow." She says this as Dalton enters the kitchen, and her face lights up. He looks at her adoringly, and for a moment I think they've forgotten I'm even here, their locked eyes engaged in a completely silent discussion. I feel another pang of jealousy, but this one is completely different.

We make a good meal of the venison, plus vegetables and greens from Peeta's garden. Dalton fills four glasses with dandelion wine. I'm a little afraid to try it, remembering my last experience with white liquor, but the wine doesn't burn when I swallow it and it actually tastes kind of good. I tell this to Dalton and he smiles, telling me that it'll be even better when the bottles have had a chance to age properly. I'm not certain I understand what that means but I let it go. Peeta has even made a cake for dessert, chocolate with a dark chocolate frosting that is just delicious, and makes the wine taste even better.

After we finish, we all settle into Peeta's living room to chat, and drink more wine. We've lit some candles though there's still plenty of evening light filtering in at this time of year. I'm feeling warm and calm, it's surprisingly pleasant having people in the house. A few hours fly by in what feels like the blink of an eye.

Delly is more than a little drunk. She's sitting on the floor, leaning on Dalton's knees as he slouches contentedly in a chair, her hair spilling over his lap. He absently plays with the curls. "Did you know," she giggles, "that Peeta was my first kiss?" Dalton shifts a little and looks uncomfortable. Delly doesn't seem to notice, and continues, "We were twelve, I think? I had a crush on Symon Dennison." I vaguely remember Symon, a merchant kid a couple of years older than us. I guess he didn't make it. The guilt that always floods in when I think of the people lost in the firebombing is pressing into the edges of my heart, but I force it back with a big gulp from my wine glass. Not tonight. I don't want to feel sad or guilty tonight.

Delly continues her story, completely obliviously. "I wanted to kiss Symon, but I had no idea how, so I kissed Peeta instead. For practice." She grins; Dalton and Peeta are both fidgeting uncomfortably in their seats now. This makes me laugh. Delly flashes me a big smile. "I guess I was a bit of a late bloomer," she shrugs.

"I guess that's one more thing we have in common," I offer with another laugh.

"We're both late bloomers?" she giggles.

"Well that too, but I meant that Peeta gave both of us our first kiss." Dalton hoots, slapping the arm of his chair, and Delly laughs, but Peeta just looks at me with a strange expression. I can't concentrate on it though because Dalton is refilling our glasses, and Delly has started prattling on about plans for the new house and farm they're going to build on the outskirts of the district, and her excitement about being able to plant a garden there next spring, which draws Peeta back into the conversation.

The rest of the evening passes comfortably, Delly and Peeta reminisce about our childhood, Delly and Dalton talk about falling in love in Thirteen and how happy they are to be back above ground. I simply listen, I've never been very good at small talk but tonight I don't have to be, and my silence feels companionable instead of stilted. Peeta and I have shifted closer together on the couch, and at some point he wrapped his arm around me, so that now I'm half reclining against his chest. The lateness and the wine have made us all drowsy, and as my head lolls against Peeta's shoulder and Delly tries to stifle yet another yawn Dalton suggests that perhaps we retire for the night. Delly and Dalton head for the bedroom on the main floor, and Peeta takes my hand and leads me upstairs to his bedroom.

I slip into the washroom to change into pajamas, and when I return Peeta is sitting on the edge of the bed, still dressed, watching me intently. "What?" I smile at him. The alcohol and the drowsiness have chipped away at my walls; I don't feel any of the wariness I normally would.

"I wasn't really your first kiss?"

"Yes you were," I counter, "I've told you that before." He simply shakes his head. "Sure I did," I continue, "On the Victory Tour."

"You told me then that you'd only ever kissed Gale once, after the Games, not that you'd never kissed anyone at all before the Games." He's slurring a little.

My head is fuzzy, and I feel like I should be offended, but I'm not, I just feel too light and too warm to be upset. I flash him a half smile. "I never thought about boys before the Games, Peeta. Not in that way. I just wasn't interested, and besides, I was too busy trying to keep my family alive."

He looks morose, "But those weren't even real kisses Katniss."

I sit down beside him, and turn so that our faces are only inches apart. "Some of them were Peeta. Surely you know that." He looks skeptical, so I continue, "Do you remember kissing me after the feast?" He nods, and I go on. "That was the first time we kissed when you weren't half dead or burning up with fever." I can't help but smirk, before continuing, "That kiss made me feel like my blood was on fire, made me hungry for more." My voice has dropped to barely a whisper and I can't stop looking at Peeta's lips, so soft and full, parted just slightly, and so close to me. Before I can stop myself I murmur, "I wish you'd kiss me like that now." His eyes widen briefly, then his hands are cradling my face and those warm lips are pressed against mine. I lean into him, and he deepens the kiss, his tongue shyly poking into my mouth, teasing mine, sending jolts of pleasure through me. He wraps one arm around me while his other hand undoes my braid, winding his fingers through the strands.

Slowly Peeta lays me back on the bed, his hands stroking my face, my hair, down the curve of my side to my hip, gently, searchingly, as he hovers over me. I feel warm and dreamy, his hands leaving trails of fire on my skin. He kisses me again, his tongue dancing with mine, and I sigh into his mouth. This is what kissing Peeta should always have felt like. I run my hands tentatively over his broad shoulders and strong arms, feeling his muscles flex under my exploring fingers. My hands move up and bury themselves in his soft curls, tugging gently, the way I've sometimes imagined. He moans, pulling back to trail kisses along my jaw and down my throat. His hands slide under my camisole, stroking my side, my ribcage. If I wasn't drunk before I am now; I'm drowning in sensation, every inch of my body feels alive.

Our bodies have moved together, pressed into each other, the heat and weight of him against me thrills me. I arch against him, trying to get even closer, and he whispers my name with such reverence I feel it between my legs, throbbing and curiously wet. I wrap one of my legs around his thigh, drawing him closer, and my hip brushes against his arousal. He bucks against me, then groans deeply, dropping his head against my shoulder, a tremor running through his body.

"Katniss," he moans, finally raising his head to look into my eyes, "We're drunk, we need to stop before we do something we'll regret in the morning." I reach up to stroke his cheek, the stubble just coming in is rough against my hand as I struggle to calm my breathing. He presses his forehead to mine, panting. I really don't want to stop, but I know he's right; neither of us is in any condition to be taking such a big step forward, and while I'm curious and needy, I know I'm not ready.

"Okay," I murmur, disappointment evident in my voice. He pulls back just slightly and smiles tentatively; relief and I think regret in his eyes. He traces my cheek with his finger and I can't resist leaning up to kiss him again, but just lightly. His smile widens as I sigh, "I really like kissing you Peeta."

He chuckles, a delicious, deep rumble that I swear I can feel deep in my own belly. "You're utterly irresistible Katniss, do you know that?" He leans in to kiss me again, sweetly and tenderly, then he climbs out of bed. "I'm going to get ready to sleep now," he says, heading for the bathroom.

With another sigh, I crawl under the covers and wait, the throbbing between my legs slowly subsiding and drowsiness taking over. It feels like he's gone a long time; when he returns I'm almost asleep. He slides into bed behind me, wrapping his arm around my waist to pull me in snugly, and kissing my hair. I hear him whisper "Good night Katniss," as sleep pulls me under.

I awaken with a jolt some time later, disoriented. It's still dark; I can't have been sleeping long. I roll over and immediately realize what woke me: Peeta is having a flashback. He's sitting up, the bedsheets twisted in his fists, and he's rocking slightly, back and forth. He's mumbling under his breath, but I can't make out any words. I carefully crawl over until I'm kneeling in front of him. I can just make out his features in the moonlight. His eyes are squeezed tightly shut. "Peeta?" I try, but he doesn't respond. I carefully take his face in my hands and say his name again, more insistently. His eyes spring open, the irises entirely swallowed by fat black pupils, but he looks right through me. His hands fly up and grip my arms, hard, making me yelp. I can feel him trembling. "Peeta!" I say loudly, "Peeta! It's not real, not real, not real, Peeta." I hold his face gently, but firmly, and force him to look into my eyes. "Come back to me Peeta, come back Peeta, my Peeta. Please." He's panting hard, whimpering, and as I watch, his pupils slowly return to normal. He drops his hands and closes his eyes; I can hear him struggling to control his breathing. I shower his cheeks and forehead with soft kisses, then pull his face against my chest and wrap my arms around his broad back. Slowly his arms snake up around my waist and his trembling subsides. When his breathing finally returns to normal, I pull back slightly to look at him. "Are you okay?" I whisper. He nods, his eyes pinched tightly closed, and I know he's not yet ready to speak, not quite free of the flashback. I continue to rock him and kiss his hair for many minutes.

"I'm sorry Katniss," he mumbles, his voice is hoarse with unshed tears. I grip him more tightly.

"It's okay, it's not your fault Peeta," I say quickly. He nods against my chest. "Do you want to talk about it?" He shakes his head, and then he pulls back a bit.

"Did I hurt you?" He can't quite meet my eyes.

"No Peeta, no, I'm okay, we're both okay, you fought it off really well," I murmur, stroking his cheek. Truthfully I'm pretty sure my arms will bruise, but I don't want to burden him with that guilt. Besides, he wasn't trying to hurt me, he was trying to prevent me from hurting him; he's still, in that part of his mind that they tampered with, afraid of me. I don't blame him for it, but it hurts a little just the same. I don't let him see that it bothers me though. I've spent enough time making him feel badly for things he can't control, I won't do that to him any more.

I release him just long enough to bring him a glass of water from the bathroom. Once he's taken a few sips I set the glass on the bedside table and encourage him to lie back down. His eyes droop closed almost immediately and he's asleep in minutes. I lie quietly beside him for a long time, stroking his hair, listening to his deep even breathing. I know I won't be able to sleep any longer tonight, and eventually the restlessness drives me out of bed and down the stairs.

I find myself curled up on Peeta's porch swing, listening to the night song of the crickets and frogs, and replaying the evening's events in my mind. I'm grateful that Peeta stopped us; the alcohol had stripped away my inhibitions, made me confess things to Peeta that I wasn't even ready to admit to myself. I'm a little ashamed of my recklessness, of the way my body responded to him, but at the same time I'm burning for more. Each time I've felt this hunger something has happened to stop us: my head wound bleeding, the lightning bolt, and now Peeta himself. It's all so very confusing. I've spent half a lifetime convincing myself that I could never love a man, never marry, yet I can't deny the feelings that his hands and lips raised in me. I squirm involuntarily thinking about his mouth on my throat; my mind might be thankful that we stopped but my body has other ideas.

Then I think about Peeta's episode. It wasn't a particularly bad one, though having it start when I was asleep and vulnerable beside him unnerves me a little, makes me realize that taking anything that might reduce my reaction time is probably a bad idea. Really, what upsets me is the knowledge that I likely brought on the flashback by kissing him, making him confused again about my feelings for him. He's been so restrained since he returned to Twelve, never pushing, never expecting anything, grateful for whatever I offer in return no matter how little. He's been beside me through my depressions and nightmares, backed away when I needed space, gently encouraged my healing, all the while he's never asked a single thing of me. It would be a lie to say that I don't know how he feels about me, I've caught him looking longingly at me when he thinks I don't notice, and I've pretended to be unaware of his erections in bed most mornings.

I didn't understand before how he could love me when he really didn't know me at all, but now I understand even less. Because now he does know me, knows how broken and mistrustful and petulant I am, and somehow he still loves me. He was hijacked and tortured, fed lies and forced to watch altered videos of me ordering his family's deaths and somehow he still loves me. I dragged him through the streets and sewers of the Capitol handcuffed, led him into the fire that scarred him and almost took his life and somehow he still loves me. I've insulted him, run from him, confused him, yelled at him, hidden from him and somehow he still loves me.

Haymitch was right, I'll never deserve him.

The sun is just cresting the horizon when I hear him coming down the stairs. I've spent the last few hours in a dreamlike state, neither sleeping nor fully awake, thinking about Peeta. I'm still not sure that I believe in romantic relationships, after all, I don't have much of a basis for faith in them, but I know that I can't keep pulling him closer then pushing him away. It's not fair to Peeta, he's already had so many reasons, both real and not real, to be confused by and doubtful of my actions. It's not really fair to me either, the world is moving on, I have to decide whether I'm going to move with it, or retreat into my solitude like Haymitch, locking everyone out.

Part of me thinks that's not such a bad idea.

Peeta steps out onto the porch, squinting at me through bleary eyes. He looks insecure and I melt a little. I flash him what I hope is an encouraging smile and pat the seat beside me. He joins me, though he seems a little unsteady on his feet. He leans his head back and closes his eyes. His brow is furrowed. "Are you okay Peeta?" I venture.

He nods, and we sit in silence, rocking gently as the sky slowly brightens, streaks of gold and pink painting the clouds. After a while he counters, "Actually, no, I feel pretty terrible. My head hurts and my stomach is rolling. I think I might have a hangover." He turns his head and opens just one eye to peer at me. "How come you're not hungover?" he asks.

Why am I not? Surely getting drunk once before, more than a year ago now, hasn't given me a higher tolerance? Maybe I simply had less to drink than the others. I shrug. "I'm not sure actually. Maybe it'll hit me later." I smile at him. "Let's get you some mint tea; I think that'll help your stomach anyway." I stand, and then offer him my hand. He takes it gratefully and I lead him into the kitchen.

I make us both tea, he sits at the table, staring at his cup glumly. Finally he blurts out "I'm sorry about last night Katniss." I stiffen, sorry, sorry for what? Sorry for kissing me? Sorry for letting me think he might want to be with me that way? My panicked thoughts swirl, my flight reflex is trigged; I need to get out of here. He senses my alarm, and reaches for my hand before I can flee. He looks straight into my eyes and takes a deep breath. "I'm not sorry about kissing you Katniss, I'm sorry for getting drunk and losing control after." Oh, he means the flashback. I relax a bit, releasing the breath I didn't know I was holding.

"There's nothing to be sorry about Peeta." I reach up to brush his over-long hair out of his eyes and smile at him.

He shakes his head, "No," he insists, "I should have known better, they warned me in the Capitol that alcohol could set me off. It was stupid, and incredibly dangerous of me to have allowed it to happen. I could have hurt you!" His beautiful eyes are filled with pain and self-loathing.

"Peeta," I breathe his name softly, twining my fingers with his, "It's okay, nothing happened, you didn't hurt me. You'll never hurt me Peeta." I don't realize until I say it that I believe it with all my heart. He still looks so sad; I feel an overwhelming need to comfort him. Without a second thought I stand, move around the table and perch gently on his lap, wrapping my arms around him and leaning into his chest. He startles a little, I don't think he expected me to be so forward, but then his arms wrap around me and we cling to each other in the quiet. I don't know what the future will hold, I'm not even sure what I want, but right now it feels so good, so right to hold him, to have him hold me.

"Katniss?" he questions against my hair, but before he can continue Delly bursts into the kitchen, complaining that she's feeling terrible too. Peeta and I quickly pull apart, and I busy myself making Delly some mint tea while Peeta starts breakfast. Being hungover doesn't dampen Delly's chattiness at all and she keeps up a near steady commentary. I know that Peeta and I need to talk, I know he needs, we both need, clarity about our 'relationship', if that's what this is, but now is not the time.


	17. Chapter 17

I used to be a sound sleeper. I could sleep through Rye shaking the bunk beds we shared as he climbed up and down the ladder, through my father shuffling along at 4 am to stoke the ovens for the day, sometimes even through my parents' incessant fighting. The Games changed that, among so many other things. Even nights where I'm not awakened by nightmares (my own or Katniss's) I wake up at the slightest disruption. I wake up when she rolls away, when Haymitch's geese honk, when the woods beyond my yard are too loud or too quiet. I've resigned myself to this, in the past two years I can count on my fingers the number of full nights of truly restful sleep I've had. All of them have been with her. I wish she would stay every night but I know better than to press it. She still clings tenaciously to her independence. So mostly I hold back and let her come to me. It's happening more frequently now, perhaps she is beginning to trust me more, or maybe she just recognises how much better we each handle the night when we face it together.

These are the things I'm contemplating, lying awake in the thin light of a waning moon. Katniss is sleeping beside me tonight, her back pressed tightly to my chest, my arm curled around her waist. This was our position of comfort all of those nights on the train. The Capitol had tried to tamper with those memories, but they were among the first that I was able to sort out correctly in my mind by myself, without video evidence or people filling in the correct version for me. The torturers assumed, like Effie and the train attendants had, that something sexual was occurring in that car. They didn't, maybe couldn't, understand that the comfort and bonding we shared was so much deeper than any lurid Capitol fantasy could have been. Our nights in the training centre before the Quell were even more precious to me, lying forehead to forehead, waiting for the dawn. Recovering those memories led to remembering our day on the training centre roof, just the two of us, talking about nothing, playing with Katniss's hair while she slept on my lap, watching the sun set with my arms wrapped around her. That day remains one of my happiest memories, in spite of the circumstances. Getting that memory back had been a turning point in my recovery. I worked so much harder after that, trying to find more beautiful moments in my mind.

Despite my sleeplessness I'm grateful for the simple comfort of her presence; her toes, cold even on this hot summer night, pressed against my leg. I bury my nose in her hair and inhale her scent; pine, lavender, woodsmoke and that unmistakeable sweetness that's all her own.

I'm finally drifting back to sleep when I feel her stiffen, hear soft whimpers. Rapidly she progresses to thrashing in the bed, kicking, arms flailing as she cries out "No! Run!" I kneel over her and grasp her shoulders, shaking firmly and calling her name but she doesn't awaken immediately. Instead she calls my name, frantically, over and over, "Peeta! Peeta!" My heart speeds up as mentally I'm transported back to the jungle arena, where we called and called but never found each other. I'm shaking her in earnest now, an edge of desperation in my voice as I call her name, entreat her to wake up.

When her eyes fly open there are a few moments of near silence while she stares at me, wild-eyed and trembling, caught between nightmare and reality. Then the haze clears from her eyes and she cries out "Peeta!" before sitting upright and throwing her arms around my neck with such force it's all I can do to maintain my balance. She's holding onto me so tightly that I can feel her heart pounding against my chest, her whole body shaking.

"Shhh," I murmur, holding her close, one hand stroking her hair, "It's over, you're safe." At that she pulls back, clutching at my face, my arms, my chest, anywhere her hands find purchase, as if checking me for injuries, perhaps ensuring that I'm whole, that I'm real. It would be comical if not for the expression of terror, of desolation on her face. She keeps saying my name over and over, like a mantra. "Shhh," I try again, "I'm here, we're safe now."

"You're here," she croaks, my face between her trembling hands.

"Always," I whisper. She leans into my chest, wrapping her arms around me and starts to cry; deep, wracking sobs. I'm shaking and getting emotional myself, Katniss almost never cries in front of anyone, even after her worst nightmares she is stoic, and yet here she is falling apart in my arms with my name on her lips. Kissing her hair over and over I rock her gently for a long time while she sobs, until finally she cries herself out. When at last she begins to calm, I carefully lay her down. She immediately moves into my arms, her head on my chest. My arms wrap tightly around her, trying to help her feel safe as we breathe together. My tear-dampened shirt is still clutched tightly in her fist when finally I feel her drop off. Eventually I follow her.

When I wake with the dawn Katniss is still sleeping, curled against me, our bodies pressed together head to toe. I have only a minute to observe how calm and lovely she looks, how gentle her expression in sleep before she stirs.

Her eyes flutter open and she tilts her face up, squinting, to look at me. I smile. Confusion floods her features, and wariness sets into her eyes as she registers our positions, the way she's wrapped around me like a vine, and I think _this is where the walls come back up, where she withdraws from me, maybe runs off into the forest again_. This dance we do, two steps forward, two steps back, it's tiresome. I brace myself, preparing for her to push me away. Instead, her expression softens, and those incredible quicksilver eyes flood with something like gratitude. I'm surprised. She gives me a tentative half smile and says good morning. I know I'm pushing my luck, but I can't resist leaning down to kiss her forehead. Katniss closes her eyes and sighs contentedly. We lie together for a while longer, listening to the morning birdsong. I'm reluctant to break the spell but she sighs and rolls away.

"Do you have plans today?" she asks. I startle a little, I don't think Katniss has ever asked me that before, not since we've returned anyway.

"I was going to do some baking and bring some bread out to the work crews." This is my regular routine, I bake, I share with Katniss and Haymitch, then I bring the remainder to others who need it. It keeps me grounded, gives me purpose.

"If you're not busy afterwards I'd like to take you somewhere. It's a bit of a hike…" she trails off.

"I'd love to go with you." I don't even care where; I'd follow Katniss to the end of the earth. It takes everything I have not to bounce with excitement like a little kid. I laugh in spite of myself, I'm just so pleased by how the morning is shaping up, "Come on, I'll make you breakfast while I start the bread."

I fry up eggs and sausage, and Katniss eats quietly, watching while I knead the dough that I'd left to rise overnight. I love to lose myself in the feeling of kneading, the way the dough feels in my hands, so familiar and safe and right. She slips away to get ready while I load up the oven, but she promises to return in a couple of hours.

Baking and delivering keeps me busy enough that I can't dwell too much. After I've finished, I return home to shower and dress in cargo pants and comfortable boots. When I come back downstairs Katniss is waiting for me, perched on my kitchen counter. "Ready?" she asks, and when I nod she hops down with cat-like grace, slinging a leather bag over her shoulder. As we exit she hands me a water skin but says nothing else.

I'm not surprised when we head for the fence, a long walk within the district would be a couple of circles along the perimeter, but I am surprised by the transformation in Katniss when we cross that mostly symbolic boundary. She absolutely lights up. I've always thought she was radiant but here in her woods she glows. I am transfixed. She looks back at me with an impish half smile and reaches for my hand. I wonder if she realizes that this is the first time she's ever taken me into the woods with her? The first time she's shared this part of her life with me?

We walk for about 2 hours, pausing now and again to rest or for Katniss to point out plants of interest. She holds my hand the entire time. I know we are going much more slowly than she would alone, she seems to be taking care to choose the surest paths, probably because of my leg. If it was anyone else I would be offended, but it's Katniss, she's not trying to insult me or insinuate anything, she just takes care of the people she cares about. It makes me smile to think that I'm part of that incredibly select group. Finally we crest a hill and spread before us in a verdant green valley is a sparkling blue lake. I gasp, I simply can't help myself, it's one of the most beautiful things I've ever seen. Katniss is grinning at my reaction. "You like?" she asks, as if anyone could ever not like such a stunning sight.

"It's amazing!" I can scarcely tear my eyes away; the lake is almost cradled in a bowl of trees, little rocky outcrops here and there. "How did you find this place?"

Her smile falters, just a little, and melancholy flashes in her expressive silver eyes before she looks away over the water. "My father used to bring me here on Sundays. He never brought Prim, or my mother, only me. This was our special place." She turns back to me with a shy smile. "I wanted to share it with you, so it can be your special place too."

I'm overwhelmed that she brought me here, that she is offering to share with me this place that is so sacred to her. Without thinking I envelop her in my arms, nearly crushing her against my chest. She doesn't pull back or resist, she simply wraps her arms around my waist and hugs me back. When I find my voice again I whisper 'Thank you." She laughs sweetly and musically, releasing me and grabbing my hand again.

"Come on!" she entreats, half dragging me down the hill. She's packed a blanket in that bag, and together we spread it in the shade of a large willow tree. There's also a substantial meal tucked in there, for which I'm grateful, the walk has left me famished. Hard boiled eggs, berries, strips of salted duck, a flask of cold tea and some cheese buns left over from the morning before. Simple food but even a Capitol meal couldn't have tasted better. As we eat she speaks animatedly about her trips here as a child; her father teaching her to swim and fish, digging for katniss roots, and shooting water fowl. She is a sight to behold; smiling, laughing, and looking happier and more relaxed than I've ever seen her. As beautiful as the lake is, it can't hold a candle to Katniss who is utterly luminous in her joy. I realize I've been staring when she stops speaking, a slight blush tinting her cheeks. She stands and offers me a hand up. "Let's go swimming."

My jaw drops. "Uh, Katniss, I don't actually know how to swim. I mean, I know you tried to show me, in the Quell, I saw the video, but I don't remember it."

She smiles. "I didn't really try to teach you then anyway, it was just an excuse to get away from the others so we could talk freely." A look of pain clouds her features, but she shakes her head and then smiles again. "I can teach you now, but it's shallow for quite a way out, so we can just wade if you prefer. I'll show you how to float." She bends to unlace her boots and for possibly the first time in my life I am seized with a wave of self-consciousness. My scars, my leg, yes Katniss has seen them before but the arena and the darkness of our bedrooms is different somehow than here in the open on this brilliant sunny day. She's slipped off her shirt, and peeking out from under her camisole I can see part of the patchwork of burn scars that I know criss-cross her back, shoulder and arm. Scars that match my own. It's this that allows me to push past my apprehension and begin to undress. When I look up again Katniss is standing at the water's edge, ripples radiate outward from where her toes just breach the surface. Clad in only a camisole and panties, her long, slender legs lead up to softly rounded hips and a tiny waist. She's no longer the half-starved waif that greeted me on my return to Twelve, though she's still very thin. Eating more regularly and her hours in the woods have transformed her into a strong, lean woman. I bite my cheek hard in an effort to stop the rush of blood downward but it's in vain, she's too beautiful, too perfect and I want her, all of her, even more now than when we were younger.

She turns, looking back at where I sit, frozen and gawking, still half clothed. "Come on slow poke!" she laughs, then runs into the water, diving under when she reaches waist deep.

I peel off my pants, leaving my shorts and undershirt, which I pull down to try to disguise my hard on. The water is blissfully cool in contrast to the summer sun, and quite effective in diminishing the evidence of my arousal. I've never been in a body of water like this before, there was water in the jungle arena of course but it was warm and smelled strange. This water is clean and cool and feels incredible. There is mud squishing up between my toes and tiny fish swimming around. When I stand still they approach me and try to nibble at the hairs of my one real leg. It tickles. I could stand here watching the fish and the shifting reflections of the trees and the clouds on the surface of the lake all day but Katniss has other ideas and soon we're playing like children, chasing each other, splashing each other, laughing like I can't recall ever laughing before.

Turns out I do remember, somewhere deep in my brain, a little of her swimming lesson because I can paddle a bit, but I prefer floating on my back, watching the clouds drift by, completely at peace.

Eventually we drag ourselves out of the water and flop onto the blanket to let the breeze dry us off. I'm so exhausted I can do nothing but lay on my side. Katniss lies next to me, smiling, her forehead pressed to mine, and here in the dappled sunshine it's even more intimate than those training centre nights. Though I'd like to stare into her eyes like this for all eternity my sleepless night and the exertions of the day catch up with me and I drift off to sleep.

I can tell by the position of the sun that more than an hour has passed when I open my eyes again. Katniss is gone, but in her place is one of my sketch pads and a couple of pencils. She's scrawled a note along the bottom of the first blank page: '_Gone fishing, back soon_.' I'm flooded with love and gratitude that she thought of bringing these for me. I pull on my clothes, then immediately set to work.

When Katniss returns with several fish, I've finished sketching an outline of the area. I haven't included much detail, my aim is only to record the shape and major elements to assist me when I paint the scene, but Katniss sighs appreciatively when she looks at the rough drawing anyway.

"You draw so beautifully Peeta." She kneels beside me, reaching a finger to gently trace the pencil lines. I thank her for bringing my sketchpad, for bringing me to the lake, for sharing such a perfect day with me. She smiles, and before I can really register what's happening she leans in and kisses me, her lips brushing against mine, light as a whisper. "You're welcome," is all she says, then busies herself packing up our makeshift picnic while my heart pounds loudly enough that I'm sure she can hear it.

Though the walk back is long I feel like I'm floating. Katniss again holds my hand, and while she's quieter than on the walk to the lake it's a content kind of quiet. Things are changing between us, I can feel it. Ever since that night during Delly's visit there's been a subtle shift. We've never spoken about it, about that night, about this thing that is growing between us, but she looks at me differently now. I'm afraid to say anything, afraid that if I acknowledge it she'll be gone, and I don't think I could survive that again.


	18. Chapter 18

I've always loved summer in District 12. The cool, misty mornings that lead into hot, sultry days, the daylight that lasts long into the evenings.

Peeta and I have fallen into a comfortable routine together. We are up before the dawn, taking advantage of the cooler air before the sun fully rises. I hunt and he bakes, bringing breads and treats to the men and women working in town cleaning up and rebuilding our district. He says it's the least he can do, but I think he's amazing. Even after everything he's been through he's still the most selfless person I've ever met.

We work in the garden together most mornings too, weeding and watering and picking the foods that are ripe. Despite knowing almost nothing about gardening before he started, Peeta's little plot of land has produced an incredible crop. Greasy Sae has been teaching me how to preserve a lot of what we've grown, and with electricity getting more and more reliable we are putting vegetables in the freezer too, so we can enjoy them when the winter comes. It feels decadent putting away food for the winter, I always tried to when I was younger but it was hard when so often I was barely catching and gathering enough to meet my family's immediate needs. Having a freezer and pantry full of food makes me feel far richer than the money the Capitol still sends ever has.

We have lunch together every day too, and then in the heat of the afternoon we hide out in Peeta's house, out of the sun, lest we damage the delicate still-healing skin grafts we both have. Sometimes we talk, sometimes we nap, and sometimes we work on the memory book. It's been slow going, I knew it would be, but it's been even harder than I'd imagined. We started with the entries that were a little easier; Jackson, Castor, the Leegs, even some of the people from our first Games. People we missed, people whose deaths were heartbreaking but people who were unlikely to trigger a flashback for Peeta or a depressive episode for me.

Last Monday though we began a page for Peeta's eldest brother and less than an hour in Peeta was huddled in the corner, rocking and pulling his hair, trying desperately to fight off the shiny memories.

I put the book away after that. When Peeta feels up to working on it again he'll tell me.

Today he's painting in his sun-filled studio while I sort through another stack of mail from the weekly Capitol delivery train. I'm getting better at keeping on top of it, I'm less afraid of what I'll find inside the envelopes.

At the bottom of the pile is an envelope addressed to both Peeta and me, which makes me smile. Only Annie does that, she figured out a while ago that she was more likely to get a response if Peeta's name was on the letter too. He's far better than I am about writing back, but he always acts like we're writing together, even if he's just reading to me what he has written before sending it.

I slide my finger under the envelope's flap and pull out a letter with a small photograph tucked in the fold. A chubby-cheeked infant with a shock of dark hair stares back at me with his father's penetrating gaze.

_Finnick Odair Jr_. is pencilled on the back in Annie's graceful hand.

Tears fill my eyes. I knew, of course, that Annie was pregnant; she's mentioned it in her letters, kept us up to date on how she was faring. But Finnick never knew. My heart breaks for this fatherless child. I know what it's like growing up without a father. At least Annie has managed, mostly, to pull herself together, unlike my own mother. I feel a kinship with this tiny tot who I might never meet. '_Finnick would have been so happy_,' I think. His time with Annie was so short, there was scarcely a month between his wedding and when the Star Squad shipped out, with Finnick never to return, but he was a completely different man in those weeks. At least he had that taste of real happiness. The pain of his loss rears in my heart, like a fist clenching.

I'm still sitting hunched over this tiny representation of all that remains of Finnick Odair when Peeta comes into the room, wiping his hands on a paint-stained rag. His face twists with concern as soon as he notices my expression, but I merely hand him the photograph wordlessly.

He doesn't make a sound as he examines the picture; it's so quiet in the house that I can hear Buttercup snuffling where he sleeps on the windowsill. But Peeta doesn't seem upset. His expression is one of shock, yes, but also of wonder. He cups the slip of paper in his hand so tenderly as he studies it; against my will an image of him gazing at a real baby that way leaps into my head. I can envision those large hands cradling the bald head of an infant as he smiles reverently. I'm shocked and a little frightened by just how compelling that mental picture is.

"He looks so much like Finnick," I murmur and Peeta nods, sitting down beside me and holding the picture so we can both look at it. I rest my head against his shoulder.

"He'll have Annie's hair I think," he notes, his finger ghosting over the picture. After a long pause he admits, "I'm so happy for her. Finnick is gone, but now she has a little piece of him to hold forever. A little piece of them, together. Of their love." His voice trails off in a whisper and my heart hurts. Before I can fall further down that line of thought Peeta stands and grabs my hand, pulling me up too.

"We have to show Haymitch," he says firmly. "He needs a little cheering up. He's been having a rough few days." I scowl; I haven't been to see Haymitch in a week at least but Peeta is over there nearly every day. He tries so hard to engage Haymitch, to bring him into the life that we're rebuilding, but Haymitch wants none of it. Oh he eats the food we prepare for him, and he picks up his deliveries once a week, or at least the weeks that they contain liquor, but otherwise he interacts with the district only minimally. We hired a young woman to help look after Haymitch's house and keep him from drowning in his own filth but she didn't work out. A nice young Seam man, Addam, is doing the job now and it seems to be working out better. I guess because Haymitch can't intimidate him. Much.

Haymitch's life now mostly consists of drinking too much and feeding his geese, which have long since grown to a harvestable size but which he shows no inclination to actually eat or sell. I guess I can't blame him for wanting to block out the rest of the world, we all have our demons, but it frustrates me endlessly. After all, it wasn't so long ago that he was lecturing me about moving on. I wish he'd follow his own advice.

Honestly, I don't know what to think about Haymitch most of the time. I know he chose to come back to 12 with me when I was released from the Capitol, no one forced him. He came back to take care of me, but since then he's mostly ignored my existence. It's not like I expect him to be a father figure to me and Peeta, not really, and even if I thought there was a possibility… well no one could ever replace my father in my heart. Not that Haymitch has ever tried. But he's one of the few grown-ups in my life, one of the few in the district really, apart from Sae. Even Thom, who is leading the reconstruction of the entire district for heaven's sake, is only 22. And there's Dalton, but it's hard to think of him as much older than we are.

But Haymitch is a drunk, and he's damaged in ways I can barely fathom, and mentoring kids who you know will be dead in days probably isn't the best training for acting fatherly. And yet there are times, just moments maybe, when I wonder if Haymitch himself wants to assume that role...

Then I remember who I'm thinking about. My scowl deepens and Peeta looks disappointed. I don't understand how he can be so forgiving of the man who abandoned him not once, but twice in an arena. I guess if Peeta can be compassionate I can at least be supportive. Of him. Not of Haymitch.

"Okay," I agree, and Peeta's face lights up. He's so easy to please. "We can make him some dinner while we're there," I suggest. "I bet he hasn't eaten since this morning." Peeta brings Haymitch baked goods virtually every morning, before he sets out to deliver food to the others in the community. He smiles and squeezes my hand in wordless agreement.

Peeta half drags me across the green; not because I'm reluctant to see Haymitch but because Peeta is just so anxious to share Annie's good news that I can scarcely keep up with him. It's sweet, really, how happy he is. He and Annie share a different bond, forged in their experiences in the Capitol dungeons and deepened by the support they give each other in healing. He's been very protective of her in the few interactions between them that I've overheard.

We walk into Haymitch's kitchen with no more than a perfunctory rap on the door to announce our arrival. Waiting for him to answer is senseless because he never answers the door, no matter how much someone pounds on it.

It's a bit shocking to see how clean everything is inside his house, even the floor. There are no liquor bottles or trash piled up, and no stench. Makes for a nice change.

The man himself wanders back from the front room looking reasonably sober, surprising for the time of day, and reasonably clean, surprising for any time of day. When he notices Peeta is holding my hand his eyebrows raise and he smirks at me in that infuriating way of his. I can feel the fire climbing up my neck and into my cheeks, and I snatch my hand away from Peeta's, embarrassed. Peeta glances at me, confused, but I turn on my heel and stomp into the pantry to check if there is anything to make supper with.

"To what do I owe the pleasure?" I hear Haymitch drawl after a pause. I busy myself gathering ingredients and making a mental note of what he's low on. Haymitch generally doesn't order food from the Capitol, but between me and Peeta and Sae we make sure he doesn't starve to death. Thankfully he's not picky.

When I emerge a few minutes later with rice, garlic and oil I find the two men sitting at the table, heads bowed, the tiny picture between them. Haymitch glances up at me and his eyes shine with unshed tears. Annie didn't mentor much after winning her games, she was simply too damaged, but I imagine Haymitch saw enough of her when the victors were paraded around the Capitol to have developed a fondness for her. It's hard not to love Annie, she's so gentle and ethereal.

Peeta joins me at the stove and together we cook up rice and vegetables, enough for all three of us to share. I'm tense the entire time, feeling Haymitch's eyes on my back, but none of us talk.

It's only after we've eaten and Peeta and I are washing the dishes that Haymitch finally speaks up.

"You need to put that picture someplace safe, like in that book of yours." I turn to him, shocked, but Peeta smiles broadly, excitement in his eyes.

"That's a great idea Haymitch, we can do that now. I'll grab the book from my house and bring it here." Peeta is out the door before I can even process what's happened. Haymitch chuckles.

"Damned boy has been trying to get me to look at your book for a month."

I snicker, Peeta's enthusiasm for running home to get the book right away makes sense now. Best to strike while there's any possibility of it actually happening, Haymitch's moods change on a dime. "I hadn't realized he'd told you about it," I admit as I put the last of the dishes away. "But if there's someone you want to add..." I trail off. Haymitch just shrugs and pours another drink from the bottle on the table. That he's using a glass is a good sign at least.

Peeta returns with the book and the small wooden box he keeps his pencils and inks in. He's flushed and smiling, but I can see the apprehension in his eyes. We haven't touched the book in nearly a week. He sets everything up on Haymitch's table and I subtly shift my chair to sit beside Peeta instead of across from him.

Haymitch reads through the pages we've already completed and the gruff, disinterested facade disappears. By the time he reaches the page we've made for Wiress he's shaking.

He shoves the book roughly in front of me and reaches for his liquor bottle. I figure this is when he'll throw us out and drink himself into a stupor to escape but instead he takes a long pull from the bottle, drops his head into his hands and barks "Maysilee Donner." Peeta gasps beside me but I grab a piece of scrap paper and a pencil.

Over the next two hours Haymitch tells us everything he remembers about the tributes from his games, as well as tributes from the first few years of his mentoring. For being so drunk and damaged his memory is remarkable. My free hand is tightly clutching Peeta's, Haymitch's opinion of that be damned.

When Haymitch falls silent I close the book. I know there are more additions to be made but my hand is cramping and we are all mentally exhausted. Haymitch leaves his kitchen without sparing us a word; I can hear his footfalls on the stairs.

I want nothing more than to run home and climb into bed, I know the nightmares will come tonight. Peeta is sitting so stiffly, working so hard to keep it together, I'm not sure he's even capable of making the walk yet. So instead I stand and wrap my arms around him where he sits, cradling his head against my chest like I do when he has a flashback. He sighs as I rock us just slightly, nuzzling the curls at the crown of his head.

After awhile he tilts his head up to lock eyes with me and I press my forehead to his, cupping his cheek as I do. It just feels right to lean in and kiss him, so I do. I can't honestly tell which of of us sighs as our lips meet, maybe we both do. Peeta's hands slide up to cradle my head, tilting it just enough to more fully claim my lips. My pulse is pounding in my ears as I wrap my fingers around his.

"Take that shit out of here, do that at your own place!" We both jump as Haymitch barks at us from the entryway. I hadn't heard him come back. I'm sure my face is scarlet and I want to crawl into a hole. I open my mouth to say something scathing back to him but Peeta beats me to it, leaping to his feet and banging his hands roughly on the table as he leans across it.

"Shut up, Haymitch! Don't you dare talk to us that way, and don't you dare try to make us feel bad for moving forward and living." My jaw drops. In all of our time back in District 12, I've never heard him be anything less than completely gentle with Haymitch.

Haymitch stands silently for a beat or two, then he starts to laugh. "Finally grew a pair, did you boy? About time." He grabs the liquor bottle he'd left on the table and leaves again, laughing the whole way.

Peeta is staring after him, jaw tensed in a way that makes me irrationally want to run my tongue over it, but I can sense his discomfort so instead I reach for his hand. "Come on, Peeta. Let's go home."


	19. Chapter 19

I should be happy; construction is scheduled to begin on my bakery in three days' time. One of the Capitol crews will use their huge machines to dig a basement and pour a foundation, and then about a week and a half later the new crew I've hand-selected will start putting together my bakery. And I am happy; I've been looking forward to this for months. But I'm also anxious and irritable, and as we draw closer to the 'big, big, big day' I just get worse and worse. It's been a struggle to keep the shiny images at bay; I've had to rely on Dr. Aurelius's mental exercises more and more often to stay in control.

This morning I'd barely rolled out of bed when I snapped at Katniss, lashed out for no reason other than she was there. I'm not even entirely sure what I said, but she took off like a shot for the woods, without a word, without even eating breakfast. The disappearing into the forest whenever there's conflict act is grating on me, even if it's probably justified this time. I know from experience that I won't likely see her again today until dinner, if even then. I can only hope I've calmed down enough by the time she comes back that I won't make things worse.

I've been waking up before dawn all summer to bake before the heat gets too bad. Even the muggiest of days tend to start cool and misty in the mountains of District 12. Now the early rising habit is again firmly entrenched, much like it was before, when I'd wake up to help my dad before school. The worst of the summer heat is behind us these days, but I have a dozen loaves of bread, along with some muffins made with summer squash from our garden, ready and packed up, and I set out to make deliveries when the rest of the district is just beginning their work days.

Walking into town helps a bit with my mood, the people on the crews are always glad to see me anyway. I make small talk here and there as I distribute the day's offerings. As always I hold back a couple of loaves for Sae, she's my last stop. Her stall is enormously popular at lunch and slices of bread go well with the soups and stews she serves up.

Despite being incredibly busy, Sae drops everything when I approach and envelopes me in a tight hug. She is so loving towards me that it's hard to believe we've only really known each other for six months. And I adore Sae; even if she wasn't so kind to me I'd love her for saving Katniss.

"How's today, Peeta?" She ruffles my hair and I can't help but chuckle.

"Much better now, Sae," I tell her with a smile as I pull the loaves I've set aside for her out of the canvas bag I use to carry them. And it's true; Sae has a way of making everything feel a little less daunting.

She's everything I wish I'd had in a mother.

I don't want to bother Sae when she's preparing for the lunch rush so after a few minutes chatting I make my way out of the marketplace, wandering to what will be my bakery. The land is completely bare, having been cleared and levelled months ago, and is only distinguishable because of the orange wooden stakes that mark the property perimeter. I've come here every day this week. I'm thrilled about the bakery, I really am, but every time I stand here I'm filled with guilt. My parents died here, my brothers died here. Is it wrong to build over the place that they died? How can I contemplate building a new life in the ashes of theirs?

As I've done every day I reach down for a fistful of dirt and let it run through my fingers. They're here, all of them. Brann. Rye. Mom and Dad. Does building over the place where they drew their last breaths mean that I'll forget them again? I've been working for a year to get back my memories of them, and I have no way of knowing even how much I'm still missing. I am the last Mellark, I am the only one who can keep their memory alive, who can carry on their legacy.

Standing, I brush my hands off on my pants and head for the edge of the district, where Dalton is building a house and farm. Delly is still living in Thirteen with her brother, but Dalton has been staying here since construction started, first with Sae, and now in a tiny shack he built beside what will be the main house.

Every time I come out here I'm amazed by his progress. Though it's only been a few days since my last visit the changes are staggering, and it almost looks like he'll be ready to move into the main house any day.

Dalton is speaking with one of his crew when I approach, but he immediately waves me over.

"Peeta!" he greets, shaking my hand firmly. "You only missed your girl by a few minutes."

"Katniss?" My confusion must be evident on my face. I thought she'd gone to the woods this morning. She hadn't mentioned planning to see Dalton, though I guess she didn't say much of anything to me this morning, especially after I bit her head off. Dalton grins.

"You got any other girls?" he teases, and I laugh, shaking my head. "She's helping me make a little something special for Dell, do you want to see?" His grin is huge, infectious, and I nod.

We stop first at the little shack he built to live in; eventually it'll be a shed of some sort but for now it serves as a place to eat and sleep, a site office, and storage for some of the construction materials. To call it crowded is to grossly understate the matter. Still, he quickly locates a spare hard hat in the mess and drops it on my head with a _thunk_. It's quite amazing to see how happy and playful Dalton is now that he's living in District 12. When he and Delly came months ago to visit he was reserved, wary, but clearly being here agrees with him.

He leads me to the main house, chatting about the weather and pointing out some of the changes since I was last around. Except for windows and roof tiles the outside is complete. Inside is another story, and I'm fascinated watching a pair of electricians running wiring through what will be future walls. They are likely the same people who will wire my bakery in the not too distant future.

What will be the main living area is dominated by a huge fireplace, the brick and clay hearth already laid. There is a barrel standing beside the hearth, and when I glance in it I can see it's half full of pink river rocks, glittering with quartz. Dalton grins, obviously too excited to wait for me to make the connection on my own.

"I'm going to surround the entire thing in these pink stones. Dell loves pink, and after all that time surrounded by nothing but grey in Thirteen I want our home to be bright and colourful for her. Katniss has been hauling the rocks back from a stream in the woods for me."

"Delly's going to love you even more Dalton, if that's possible," I tell him with an easy smile but my mind is reeling, thinking of Katniss hauling rocks back from the woods bagful by bagful, all alone.

Dalton points out a few more new additions inside the house, speaking with a pride that comes from seeing your vision realized. I'm looking forward to experiencing that feeling for myself with the bakery. My house is nice, and it's mine, but the Capitol designed and built and furnished it, and the few paintings I've hung don't really personalize it all that much.

We head back outside and as I hand him back the hard hat I ask, "How long has Katniss been bringing you rocks?" I try to keep my tone light. I'd like to think she would ask for my help with such a big project, but she hasn't, not a word.

"Just yesterday and today, I'm amazed that she's gathered so many already. She's been a great help, not only with the stones." He looks pensive for a moment, then shakes his head. "Anyway, I'd better get back to work if I want to have Dell and Davey in here before the snow flies. I'll see you tonight, Peeta."

He turns and walks away before it clicks in my head that he said tonight. I guess Katniss has made plans for us? I hope it's for us anyway, and not just her and Dalton. I didn't realize that she was spending time over here during the day and I'm not quite sure how I feel about it.

I walk for another hour, alone with my thoughts, observing the reconstruction but not interacting with anyone else. It's only when I realize that my leg is throbbing from being on it all day without pause that I finally, reluctantly, head back to Victor's Village.

Katniss is at my house when I arrive, standing in the kitchen over an enormous pot, her head encircled with sweet cinnamon steam, the counter littered with glass jars. I shouldn't be surprised to see her here since I know she was with Dalton just a couple of hours ago but I really didn't expect she'd come back until late. She's humming, and when she notices me the smile she gives me is warm and genuine.

"Hey," she says happily, no trace of the tension she wore like a cloak this morning. "Are you hungry? Greasy Sae taught me to make this amazing stuff with apples and currants and raisins, she calls it mincemeat, though there's no meat in it. It's supposed to go into a pie, but I've just been eating it spread on bread." I'm not hungry, even though I only picked at breakfast and skipped lunch altogether. My stomach has been in knots all week. Her enthusiasm is infectious though, so I nod. Katniss doesn't care much for cooking, she can throw together a great meal but she doesn't usually enjoy the process. However all of the preserving that Sae is teaching her seems to have struck a chord with her, and that's something I'm happy to encourage.

She gestures for me to sit at the kitchen table and I watch as she slices some of this morning's bread, white and fluffy with a rich golden crust. She slathers the slices with creamy goat cheese, then tops them with dollops of the dark chunky mixture from the pot, still steaming.

When she sets the plate in front of me I can't resist grabbing her hand, I just want to touch her so badly. With a little tug I pull her onto my lap and then hold my breath. I've only held Katniss like this twice before and I brace myself for her to stiffen and pull away but she instead turns to me with an expectant smirk and a pretty blush creeping over her cheeks.

"I'm sorry about this morning, Katniss," I tell her, needing to get that off my chest right away, but she shakes her head.

"Everyone is entitled to a bad day, Peeta. I know you didn't mean anything by it." I'm surprised and humbled by her insight, by how casually she forgives me, and I can feel some of the stress of the day melt away.

She makes to get up but I grab her hip. "Stay?" She leans over and brushes her lips over my cheek in the softest of kisses.

"Let me turn off the burner. I'll come right back." Her words whisper across my face in a cinnamon-scented promise before she eases away.

True to her word she's only gone a moment, shutting off the stove and moving the large pot to the side. When she comes back she pauses in front of me, hesitant, but I'm desperate to hold her, to replenish my stores of calm with the warmth of her. I wrap my arms around her and pull her again into my lap, snug against my chest, and she practically melts.

This is what I needed, more than the food that she carefully lifts to my lips, more than the distractions of baking and walking and visiting. What I need is just her, just Katniss. And I realize that it's been like this since the first arena. When I'm not with her I feel unsettled, I constantly wonder where she is, what she's doing, whether she's okay. Only when she's beside me do I feel at peace. As she feeds me bits of sweet and savoury bread I understand that pushing her away this morning made the whole day worse, and now feeling her small body pressed against mine I regret it even more. Our time is too precious to waste.

We sit silently as she feeds me, bite by bite, sharing shy smiles. When she strokes my bottom lip with a calloused thumb to remove an errant bit of fruit I can resist no longer, reaching up to catch her hand and press a kiss to her palm. I can feel the shudder that vibrates through her at the touch of my mouth and it's matched by a rush of warmth that pools in my groin.

I want to kiss her. I need to kiss her. Those soft peach lips are only inches away. As I sit here internally debating, all but paralyzed with indecision, she slowly leans in. The first touch of her lips to mine sends a bolt of lightning straight to my dick. Her hands slide up my neck, fingers twisting in the curls on the back of my head and the sensation is incredible.

She shifts a little and captures my lower lip between hers, and I feel the fleeting swipe of her tongue. I can't prevent the moan that rumbles from my throat. I want her. My fingers twitch against her back, begging to explore, but I rein them in, I can't lose myself, like I did when we were drunk all of those weeks ago. I can't risk pushing her too far too fast.

Apparently Katniss doesn't share my hesitation. Her fingers tighten in my hair as her tongue continues its cautious exploration of my bottom lip, and lust infuses my every fibre. It's only a bit of lucky positioning that prevents her from feeling the force of my desire, my cock twitches barely an inch from where her firm thighs rest across my lap, and it's all I can do not to buck my hips forward, to rut against her like an animal in heat.

Her teeth nip gently and my ability to think vanishes. Pure instinct kicks in and my arms wrap tightly around her as I finally let myself taste her fully, the velvety softness of her tongue, sweet with raisins and nutmeg, the ridges of the roof of her mouth that make her whimper when I stroke them. We've never kissed like this. It's clumsy and a little sloppy and it's the most incredible thing I've ever experienced. She's just as eager as I am, and together we learn, together we strive to draw out little sighs and moans from each other.

We are completely lost in each other, oblivious to our surroundings when a series of sharp knocks rocket us back to reality. We spring apart like guilty children, but she doesn't immediately jump off my lap and for a few moments we just stare at each other, breathing heavily.

She is utterly gorgeous, her lips swollen, eyes hooded, hair mussed up. Love swells in my chest, this incredible woman in my arms, she's well-kissed and dishevelled because of me. I did that. A powerful wave of possessiveness crests as I stare into those mercury orbs that burn with passion - passion for me. 'Mine,' I think. 'She's mine now.'

A second series of knocks sound and I groan audibly. Katniss snorts at my reaction, eyes twinkling. "That'll be Dalton," she says with a sigh. "He said he'd come by to ask for our help with a project. I meant to tell you, but we were a little distracted." She hops off my lap and reaches for my hand. I try to adjust myself surreptitiously, grateful that the loose linen pants I wear are somewhat forgiving because my inability to calm down is abundantly obvious.

We make our way to the door to find Thom, instead, standing on the porch, holding a pair of large boxes. As we all exchange greetings Thom keeps shooting me approving looks, the universal guy signal for 'way to go.' It's clear he can tell from our flushed faces and rumpled appearance that he interrupted something. I suspect the boxes in his arms are the only thing preventing him from high-five-ing me. Thankfully Katniss is oblivious to his knowing smirks; I imagine she'd be embarrassed. She is intensely private, even more so after so long performing for the Capitol. I, on the other hand, feel an odd sense of pride, and I squeeze her hand firmly before letting go to relieve Thom of some of his burden.

It turns out that the boxes are part of the special project Dalton wants to speak with us about. Thom and I stack them by the kitchen door, and then sit at the table chatting while Katniss packs the mincemeat into sterile glass jars. I admit that I'm kind of terrible company right now because I can't keep my eyes off Katniss, but Thom doesn't complain even when he has to repeat himself several times.

When Dalton finally arrives bearing yet more boxes, he has Sae and Lila with him, along with a Seam kid I've hired for my crew named Kip and a couple of other young men from the work crews, all District 12 survivors.

Sae has a hamper of food and insists that we picnic outside on the green while Dalton explains his request. I pull blankets down from the closet and Katniss gathers plates and pours pitchers of water.

It's a beautiful evening; September is an incredible time of year in District 12. Balmy, but without the oppressive humidity of summer. A cold chill runs down my back as I realize that I missed all of September last year, between being in the Capitol dungeons and then in the bunkers that make up District 13. I sit down hard on the corner of a blanket and close my eyes against the rush of images. The chatter around me suggests no one notices, and yet somehow Katniss is there, her hand squeezing mine, her voice soft in my ear. "You're safe, Peeta, it's okay now. You're okay now." I nod and focus on the feeling of her thumb stroking my hand, our fingers clasped tightly, and the waves of fear and confusion fade.

The meal is lively, and I try to enjoy being with everyone, though I'm still struggling. Katniss seems to sense it and stays by my side. Dusk is falling by the time Sae's meal has been devoured, Katniss lights candles as Dalton begins to speak.

"We have a ceremony, back in District Ten, for saying goodbye to lost loved ones," he starts, solemnly. "At dusk we launch sky lanterns, to guide the spirits of the deceased to the afterlife. For us it's a tangible way to say goodbye, to release the pain of their loss and allow ourselves to celebrate their lives and remember them with joy and love." He reaches into one of the boxes and pulls out what looks like an upside-down paper bag, but stiffened somehow.

He turns and hands it directly to me, and I realize at once that it's made of baking parchment, a special heat-resistant paper that my father would occasionally order from the Capitol. It was expensive, so he used it only for the most exclusive of treats: macarons. Made from ground almonds and egg whites, macarons are cookies so delicate that even the vibration of us kids running through the bakery loft could crack their fragile crusts and render them unsellable. When he could afford to order the almonds and parchment needed to make them he'd send us boys away early and bake them before the store-front could be overrun with heavy-footed door-slamming patrons. And when finally he'd put out trays of the pastel-tinted delicacies, the merchant women would flock to buy them, as if they were a status symbol instead of a baked treat. I never had the opportunity to learn to make them, by the time I was old enough to trust with that kind of precision work the bakery's finances were precarious and there was no money to risk on things so easily ruined. I haven't seen a sheet of baking parchment in at least 5 years.

I shake away the memory and see that Dalton is looking at me, his brow furrowed. I hope I haven't missed anything while I've been lost in my memories. "You remember Davey, right?" he continues, directed at me. I nod, confused. Davey is Delly's little brother, the reason that she's still in District 13 while Dalton is in 12. "Davey is having a real hard time, missing his parents and all. We want him to live with us, once the house is finished, but Dell is worried about how he'll react, being back here. I've been talking with Sae about having a sky lantern ceremony, and, well, she mentioned that there are a few others who might want to join in."

I understand now what Dalton is hinting at; apparently I haven't been as subtle about my conflicted feelings over my family's final resting place as I'd thought. I'm not sure what to say to him though. I can't imagine how a bunch of paper bags could possibly make any difference in the gut-wrenching guilt I feel over being here when they are not.

At a loss for words myself I simply continue examining the lantern as Dalton describes the basics of the ceremony to the others. The parchment is stretched over a frame of thin willow branches lashed together with thread, and the base holds a tiny bundle of fabric soaked in wax. It's remarkably light for its size, almost flimsy. Dalton looks back at me bouncing the lantern on my palm and grins. "Let me show you," he says, and pulls a box of matches from his pocket. The wax-saturated fabric catches easily, producing a low flame and making the paper bag glow. Then, almost as if by magic, the bag begins to drift upwards out of my hands, like a hot air balloon I remember reading about in a history textbook years ago. My jaw drops, and the others have nearly identical expressions. Lila squeals and begins to dance around. Dalton catches the lantern once it reaches his shoulder height and uses a bit of water to extinguish the flame, which makes me unexpectedly sad. There was something ethereal about that glowing orb, floating so gracefully, and I immediately miss the feeling of hushed anticipation that had accompanied it.

"So," Dalton says to all of us with an almost triumphant cadence. "Will you all help?" There's an enthusiastic murmur from the group, and smiles all around.

Apparently Delly and Davey are coming to District 12 on the train the day after tomorrow, and Dalton wants to hold the ceremony that evening. We all sit quietly as night falls, absorbed in assembling willow frames and wrapping parchment paper around them while Sae melts candles to drip wax onto torn up bits of rag. When finally it's fully dark we have almost 40 lanterns put together, and there are enough supplies to make another dozen or so, which Katniss and I offer to do in the morning. Dalton says it would be traditional to have one for every soul we've lost, but so many people in 12 perished it just wouldn't be possible.

Sae and Katniss put away the dishes and blankets while the rest of us move the lanterns into the house and stack them in the main floor bedroom. My studio is bigger, but there are pictures in there that I'm not willing to let anyone else see.

Once everyone has left, Katniss and I climb the stairs silently and crawl into bed. It's early yet but I'm exhausted, and I fall asleep immediately, but not for long.

The nightmares are vicious, and when I finally manage to pull myself out of the horror of my mind I find myself lying on my side, sweat-soaked and rigid with terror. Katniss's slender arms are wrapped around me and her lips brush the nape of my neck as she sings under her breath. Under any other circumstance that would be incredibly erotic but I'm so upset and I feel so vulnerable that all I can do is cry.

When dawn breaks I've slept no more than an hour and I don't think Katniss fell asleep at all. Her arms are still wrapped around me, though she stopped singing hours ago, and her breath skitters across my neck in a way that's surprisingly intimate. She must sense me waking because her arms tighten slightly. "I'm sorry, Peeta," she whispers. I roll over to face her and her arms fall away. I miss them immediately.

"Why are you sorry," I whisper back, my throat raw from repressing sobs half the night.

"I asked Dalton to include us in his project. It's too much for you, isn't it? That's why you had such a bad night. I should have spoken to you first." She can't meet my eyes. I gather her into my arms and press my lips against her forehead. It's so easy to comfort each other when we're wrapped up together in the dim of my bedroom or hers. The familiarity of it, knowing it's something we used to do before the Quell, knowing that it's something we've always done just for each other, not for an audience.

"I've been struggling for a while, Katniss, I think you know that. I don't think anything Dalton says will make it worse. I just…" I pause to gather my thoughts. "I never got to say goodbye to them." Katniss wraps her arms around me and we hold each other in the quiet. It's a long time before I can speak again.

"It's just so hard to accept that I'll never see them again. It doesn't feel real." I shift back to look right at her, and she meets my gaze unflinchingly. "Am I making a mistake? Building my bakery where they died? Am I… am I dishonouring them?" Her brow furrows in thought, and she shakes her head slightly.

"I don't think so, Peeta. I think it's fitting, actually. In a way they'll be a part of the new bakery." I cringe and she shakes her head. "Sorry, I don't mean it like that. I just mean that your family has had a bakery in that spot since the Dark Days, and building a new one there, where there's so much of your family history, it's like proving that you're stronger than everything the Capitol did to us. The Mellark family prevails," she smiles wryly at me and I try to smile back, though my heart hurts. I don't know how much prevailing there'll be since I'm the last Mellark, and I can't fathom having children. Katniss doesn't want them, and I'm terrified of bringing a baby into the world when I can't guarantee I can keep myself together well enough to take care of it. I love kids, I've wanted to be a father since I was a kid myself. But I know what it's like to grow up afraid of your parent. I couldn't do that to another child.

"Peeta?" Her tentative voice breaks me from my reverie, I'm not sure how long I was lost in my head again. Her eyes are large and solemn. "I think they'd be so proud of you, Peeta."

It's physically painful to hear that because I just don't think it's true. I can't keep my emotions under control and bury my face in my hands. "Oh baby," she murmurs as she wraps me in her embrace again and I sob into her shoulder.

...

The sun is fully up and streaming into the bedroom when I finally calm. I'm embarrassed by my outburst, and I try to explain.

"I knew I'd never see them again Katniss. I went into that arena to die, they were supposed to be safe. They died because of me.." It's hard to bite back the urge to blame her too, so much of what they programmed into my head in the Capitol centred around Katniss being to blame for their deaths, only months of working with a half dozen different doctors allows me to see that for the lie that it is... but still it lingers in my brain. I think she hears my unspoken thought anyway because she simply holds me tighter and whispers a string of soothing nonsense.

By the time we reluctantly climb out of bed it's far too late to bake, and I'm not sure I trust myself to do anything that requires mental alertness anyway. Katniss goes downstairs to throw together something for us to eat while I climb in the shower. It's only when I'm standing under the hot water that I realize Katniss called me _baby_. She's never called me by anything other than my name before. I've only ever heard her use a term of endearment for Prim. I wonder what that means.

...

Katniss doesn't go hunting, I don't bake, we break all of our routines today. She makes eggs with tomatoes and spinach from our garden, and strong tea, and after we eat she takes me to the woods to pick apples. We hardly speak at all. It's so soothing in the woods though, the whisper of the leaves in the wind, the smell of pine and dirt and the sweet pungency of fallen fruit. I lose count of just how many different shades of green there are in the leaves and moss and needles. I understand why Katniss loves it out here so much.

And in the early part of the afternoon she brings me home and tucks both of us into my bed for a much needed nap. This time we sleep soundly.

...

Delly and Davey arrive the following afternoon, Katniss, Dalton and I meet them at the station. Because their house isn't yet fit to sleep in they'll stay with me for their short visit, Delly and Dalton in the guest room, Davey on the couch. There are two more empty bedrooms upstairs but with Katniss and I waking up so often with nightmares it just seems like a better idea to put some space between them and us.

Dell is as effusive as ever, it amuses me to watch her practically launch herself at poor Katniss who is so much more reserved. Davey has grown tall and lanky since I saw him last, hard to believe that he's 13 now. I was worried that seeing Davey might remind Katniss too much of Prim with his age and fair colouring but so far she seems unaffected.

The route to Victor's Village bypasses the devastation and rebuilding but Davey will see some of it tonight, we will be launching the sky lanterns from the bare land that was once our Justice building. It too is on the docket for reconstruction, I think the foundation is scheduled to be dug right after the bakery's actually.

The new building won't be called a Justice building though. Apparently it'll be called a _town hall_, which is an archaic term, but it will do the same things as the old one did; issue permits, hold offices for officials, etc. With Paylor promising a new democratically elected government the town hall will also be a place where people can vote and representatives can talk to their constituents. It's all a little overwhelming to envision.

We drop their bags at my house, then head to the farm so that Delly and Davey can see how much Dalton has accomplished. The real benefit of having Delly around is that she doesn't let anyone have any time to brood, she keeps up a near constant stream of chatter all day. We all convene at Sae's house for dinner, then set out for town about an hour before sunset.

Most of the people staying with Sae come along, which is certainly helpful for carrying all of those lanterns. My heart aches when I hear Davey's gasp, I vividly remember my own reaction to the devastation of my home. I look over my shoulder to see Delly and Dalton each with an arm around the boy, who looks shocked and horrified. Though the rebuilding is well under way the blank spots where familiar buildings used to stand still outnumber the new structures, and there is still plenty of rubble in piles everywhere. Katniss too is watching the little family, sadness etched on her face.

There's a good-sized crowd already assembled when we arrive, and Dalton efficiently arranges everyone into a rough circle, careful to place Katniss and me closer to the centre, with Davey. He and Delly pass out the lanterns, and Sae hands out candles to everyone without a lantern.

I don't really hear the words he says so much as I absorb their meaning, an invocation for guidance, a sonnet of love that reaches beyond the grave. By the time he lights the first candle and the flame passes from person to person I can feel the energy that thrums through the crowd. The candle bearers begin to light the lanterns we hold. As gently as dandelion fluff in the wind the lanterns begin to float gracefully upwards, and I swear I can feel my heart lifting with them. Dalton is chanting something in another language, '_Requiem Aeternam', _the others join in as they learn the sounds and the words follow the lanterns high into the night sky.

For just a few minutes it feels like we are suspended between our lives here and something else, something so much bigger, and I'm infused with a feeling of warmth and serenity. It's almost as if I can feel them with me, Dad, Mom, Brann and Rye, even Prim, and so many others. Can feel their approval and their love. They'll be watching over all of us; in this moment I feel sure of it.

Katniss and I are wrapped in each other's arms, and I have no clear memory of how that came to be. We both have tears streaming down our faces, in fact everyone I can see in the gathering is crying silently and hugging each other. Even Lila, held aloft in Sae's arms, is still and reverent.

One by one the lanterns wink out, high above us. The group stays completely silent until the last light disappears. Then the sounds of this life, the low voices, coughs, shuffling of feet emerge, grounding me, reminding me that while the lights have gone elsewhere I'm still here and I still have a life to lead. It's humbling, and the gratitude I feel for my community, for the new family that surrounds me, for the arms of the love of my life encompassing me, fills me with a calm that has been missing for months. And I know, in this moment, that life will be good again, despite our losses.


	20. Chapter 20

My father used to call this "Indian Summer", when the heat returns for one last visit before autumn fully sets in. The unexpected heat and the overwhelming humidity, right when the weather has already cooled off and everyone is ready for fall, is incredibly frustrating. It's so hot, so damned hot that hunting is all but impossible. I think about going to the lake, floating in the cool waters until my brain doesn't feel fried anymore, but it's too hot for the long walk. I settle for wading in the stream, crouching in the cool flowing water and watching the little fish. It helps, but as soon as I've climbed out and put my clothes back on I'm overheated and miserable again.

I trudge back to Victor's Village earlier than usual and head to my house for once, instead of Peeta's because I can't fathom dealing with another human being right now.

I haven't been here a lot lately and it smells strange, musty. I open the windows to try to get any fresh air in, but there is no breeze today and the house remains stuffy. Whatever, all I really want is to stand in the shower under the cold water until I get wrinkly anyway.

The shower is cold, much colder than the stream, colder even than the lake would have been at this time of year. It feels so good; I can feel my irritation melting away. I even wash my hair with a forgotten bottle of shampoo, lavender scented, probably Flavius left it here long ago, maybe before the Victory Tour. I don't even realize that I'm singing until I notice the way that the shower tiles bounce my voice back at me, making me feel like I'm singing a duet.

When I finally drag myself out I'm feeling about as good as I get. I wrap a fluffy towel around my wet hair but leave the rest of my body damp and uncovered. I have no desire to put my hunting clothes back on; even cooled off as I am from the shower I can't bear the thought of putting on the heavy long garments so I head into the bedroom to look for something cooler.

There aren't many clothes left in this house I realize, my things have been gradually migrating to Peeta's house. Or maybe not so gradually, since he's only been back for 6 months. Still, I find some underclothes in a drawer and slip them on. I take a deep breath before opening the large closet. Apart from hiding in here from time to time during bad days I've never really used it. At the back are rows of garment bags, inside which I know are all of the gowns that I 'designed' as part of my talent. Really, Cinna designed them all, sewed them with all of the love and attention to detail that he put into everything, but I've never really looked at any of them. Off to the side are some of the Cinna designs that I've actually worn, or at least tried on, there are too many to have had occasions for all of them, and there's another large cupboard of them in the basement. My heart breaks a little as I finger the fabrics and remember the warm, brave man who made them. I force myself to turn away, not yet strong enough to face the guilt and agony of his loss.

The other side of the closet holds the clothing that my mother bought for me when I returned from the Games. She felt it was important that a person of my new standing 'look the part', so she had purchased simple but well-made dresses and blouses and shoes in the typical District 12 style. And I had, of course, all but ignored them, preferring to stubbornly hold onto my old clothes and my old life. I smile wryly, if only I'd known what an impossibility that was. These clothes are easier to look at, there are fewer negative connotations associated with them. I'm pleasantly surprised to find a couple of soft, lightweight cotton sundresses, perfect for an unbearably hot day like today. I pull one from its hanger, pale blue with white flowers, subtle and not too fussy. It fits well enough, not perfectly like Cinna's creations always did but I figure it's good enough. I'm not likely to find myself on one of the Capitol's worst dressed shows anyway. I'm not thrilled by how many of my scars are displayed by the thin shoulder straps and knee length of the design but it doesn't constrict me and I don't feel overheated wearing it. Plus the skirt kind of swishes around my legs, helping to cool me more. It's almost nice.

I leave my feet bare, my hunting boots are too hot and there's no way I'm going to dig further through this closet looking for silly dressy shoes, though I'm sure there are some in there. Bare feet feel best anyway.

The shower and getting distracted by memories of Cinna mean it's quite late when I cross the green carrying my boots, my hair messily braided and hanging damply down my back. I'll re-braid it when I get to Peeta's house, my brush and hair ties are all there anyway. I call his name as I enter and I can hear him coming down the stairs, speaking as he does. "Hey, where were you, I was getting worried when you…" He stops mid-word as he walks into the kitchen and sees me, his jaw dropping almost comically. His eyes roam over me, from my bare shoulders to the hem of my skirt and down to my bare feet and I feel my cheeks heating up.

"What?" I ask, defensively, crossing my arms across my chest.

"I'm sorry," he starts, his eyes still wide, "It's just, wow, I haven't seen you in a dress since…" his brow furrows slightly, and I remember, the last dress I wore was the wedding gown that became a Mockingjay and got Cinna killed. Which makes me even more tense.

I scowl, "It's hot, and my hunting clothes are all too heavy." I don't want to think about Cinna or wedding gowns or all of the ways I've hurt Peeta, and I'm feeling angry and foolish for wearing the sundress and uncomfortable under his hungry gaze. This isn't who I am; I'm dirty pants and torn shirts and never warranting a second glance.

He clears his throat and continues, softly, "You look beautiful Katniss, that's all." He turns away, but not before I notice the tips of his ears turning red. He busies himself with pulling things from the refrigerator. "I made salad for dinner, I hope that's okay, it was just too hot to think about cooking."

I relax a little, and begin to set the table. "That sounds great." I tell him, sincerely. When we're seated and he's dished out heaping plates of greens with a sweet raspberry dressing, I add "I'm sorry I was late, I was hot and cranky, and when I went looking for something cool to wear I got lost in remembering Cinna." He nods sympathetically, and I continue, "And I'm sorry that I snapped at you." Lately I've been trying, really trying, to apologize when I know I'm acting like a brat, but it hasn't been easy. Dr. Aurelius encourages me to step back every time I lose my temper and look at the situation as if I was an observer. I've rolled my eyes more than once at the suggestion but I find when I do I'm almost always the one who has jumped to conclusions or gone off for no reason. It's infuriating, really, to always be wrong. I can't do anything about my prickly personality, but I'm trying to at least make amends for the worst of my behavior.

Peeta, of course, absolves me with a smile and a wave of his hand, like he always does. "The heat was unbearable today, wasn't it?" I nod. "No one did any work in town today, which I'm glad for since I didn't even turn on the oven." I can't blame him for that, possibly the only thing worse than wandering the woods in heavy pants and a long shirt today would have been toiling over a hot oven.

"Did your parents ever close the bakery during heat waves?" The question is out of my mouth before I can stop it, and I stiffen, hoping it doesn't set Peeta off. He merely smirks though.

"My mother never closed the bakery if there was a chance we could sell something. Heat waves were often our best sales days since nobody else wanted to cook." He smiles crookedly, "Though sometimes my mother would disappear for a while, so that she could get away from the ovens. And any time my mother wasn't in the bakery it was a lot more fun for us." Of course the witch would leave her children to slave in the heat while she went elsewhere. I can't keep the scowl off my face, but Peeta merely shrugs, "She wasn't much of a baker anyway, it's not like it would have been helpful had she stayed." That's fair I suppose.

"So what did you do today then?" I seldom, still, ask him what he does when we're apart, assuming generally that he's followed our typical routines, but if he didn't turn on the oven then he didn't spend his morning baking or delivering and visiting. And I'm curious.

He chuckles. "I painted for a while. I visited Haymitch. I had two cold showers…" I start to giggle at that. He raises an eyebrow.

"I had a long, cold shower too, and that was after I spent a couple of hours huddled in the stream trying to cool down."

"Great minds think alike." Peeta says. I wrinkle my nose at the old saying, I remember my mother using it but I never believed it.

"We're just both sensible about keeping our cool." I state. I swear I hear him snicker, but he quickly gathers up our plates and turns away.

The sun has set and the temperature outside is finally falling, I prop open the back door to let a breeze in as I quickly wash up the dishes. Peeta disappears elsewhere in the house. As I put away the last one he reappears.

"I – I want to show you something." He rubs the back of his neck, not making eye contact with me and looking so shy and uncertain. In this moment he reminds me so much of the boy who, in school, would meet my eyes so briefly only to look away every time. I try to give him my most encouraging smile, though I'm incredibly concerned about what he could possibly be so afraid of showing me. He loops his fingers through mine and leads me towards his studio. I stop just outside the door and look at him with trepidation, I never go into his studio, I know he uses his art as therapy and I imagine there are lots of things in there that I shouldn't see. Peeta seems to understand my hesitance. "There aren't any of those paintings in here anymore, don't worry," he chuckles, "But I wouldn't go into the basement if I was you."

I follow him into his studio cautiously, still worried about what I might find. True to his word the stacks of canvasses have been cleared out and the large room feels almost empty. A drop cloth covers much of the floor, the only furniture is a bookshelf filled with supplies, a pair of armless chairs that I recognize as being from the dining room set the house originally came with, and an easel. When I look at the easel my breath catches. There is a large canvas balanced on it, easily three feet wide. Peeta has painted my lake, in full glorious detail. It's utterly breathtaking; he's rendered the deep blue of the water, the dappled green of the trees, even the smooth rock where my father and I would dry off after swimming, all of it in such painstaking detail that I feel like I'm looking through a window instead of at a board covered in paint. I can't imagine why Peeta would be nervous about showing me such an incredibly, beautiful masterpiece. Then as I inch closer I see it, and I start to cry. Standing at the water's edge are two figures, shown from behind. A dark haired man, his pant legs rolled up, ripples radiating outward on the surface of the water as if his toes have just breached it. And holding his hand is a little girl in a red plaid shirt with her hair in two dark braids.

Peeta hasn't just painted the lake as he sees it. He's painted it as I see it. As the place where my father's spirit lives on.

I am so completely overwhelmed, I turn and throw myself at Peeta, wrapping my arms tightly around him and sobbing into his shoulder. He holds me close, but he's tense, and I realize that he's not sure if I like it. I pull back enough to cup his cheeks in my hand. "Thank you," I gasp out. "It's so beautiful, so perfect." His smile lights up the room. I'm crying and laughing and stroking his cheeks with my thumbs and impulsively I lean up and kiss him.

I'm hit with a wave of hunger so intense it makes the feeling I experienced on the beach seem like a whisper.

Peeta must feel it too because the kiss quickly deepens and his hands begin to move up and down my back. I'm clutching at him, frantic to feel every part of him under my hands. When his tongue pokes into my mouth I whimper and wind my fingers through his curls. I want to devour him, and it seems like he feels the same way. He slowly walks us to the side of the room, and then falls back into one of the chairs, pulling me with him so that I'm straddling his lap, never breaking the kiss. My dress is hiked up around my waist but I barely notice, so focused am I on the feeling of his mouth, his tongue stroking mine insistently. He winds my braid around his hand, pulling gently so that my head falls back, leaving my neck exposed to his exploring tongue and teeth. I moan softly as he sucks on my collarbone, electric shocks running through my chest, heat pooling between my legs. I can feel myself getting wet and I squirm unintentionally. Peeta groans and thrusts his hips upwards, pressing his very evident erection against my core, the thin cotton of my panties offering no barrier to the rough fabric of his trousers.

I gasp and he pulls back slightly, panting and eyes wide, but I lean forward again, capturing his mouth, kissing him hungrily, grinding myself against his hardness with abandon. His hands are frenzied, running up and down my back, coming to rest on my buttocks, pulling me against him as he thrusts his hips against me again. My entire body is on fire, I've never felt anything like this before, I'm trembling with need. I arch back, rocking against him, eyes screwed shut, moaning his name. His hands on my hips rock me against him, increasing our speed, the delicious friction of his thrusts pushing me higher. He moans, low and deep, like a train rumbling in his chest as I lean forward to lick and kiss and bite at his neck, his hot skin tasting sweet and salty and intoxicating. The pressure in my belly is relentless, I'm chasing something. My nipples are rigid, when I press my chest against his the friction sends shockwaves from my breasts down, down, the throbbing between my legs becoming almost unbearable. I whimper, "Peeta, please, oh please," I have no idea what I'm begging for, but Peeta does, pulling me tightly to him he thrusts his hips more insistently, one hand my tailbone, pressing me against him.

"Let go Katniss," he murmurs in my ear. "Come for me." I grab his face in my hands, panting, and lock my eyes with his blue ones which are shining with love and lust, willing him to see what I don't have the words to tell him. Then I am nothing but sensation, my body spasms and shudders, I cry out loudly as waves crash over and over me, until I fall forward, spent, resting my head on Peeta's shoulder, quivering and panting while his hands gently stroke my back. As my body calms down I feel myself blushing furiously, I can't bear to look at him, I'm so embarrassed. As if he senses my unease he pulls back to look at me, tipping my chin up, and I see in his eyes awe and wonder. "That was the most beautiful thing I've ever seen." He whispers, his smile lighting up his entire face. I lean in and kiss him gently, then tuck my head into the crook of his neck. My mind is overloaded, I have no idea how to even begin to process what just happened, or how I feel about it. Though his cock twitches stubbornly against the inside of my thigh, Peeta simply holds me and continues stroking my back and hair, kissing my head and murmuring sweet things into my hair. After a long while he kisses my temple and says, "Let's go to bed Katniss."

When we're tucked into his big bed together, my head on his shoulder, our legs entwined under the sheets, I lean up and whisper in his ear "Thank you Peeta, that was the most incredible thing I've ever experienced."

He kisses my forehead and says softly "I love you Katniss." I drift off to sleep, hoping that someday I'll be able to say those words back to him.


	21. Chapter 21

When I wake up and reach for her she's gone, her side of the bed cold. I fall back on my pillow and groan, pressing the heels of my hands into my eyes, hard. I knew it would be like this. I knew Katniss would withdraw from me because of the intimacy. She's probably off in the woods, hiding in a tree. _Shit_, I think, _I've really screwed things up this time_. I contemplate staying in bed and berating myself all day but there is bread to bake and deliver, and I'd like to check in with Thom at the bakery site. Besides, wallowing in my hurt is just an invitation to an episode. Routines. Dr. Aurelius keeps emphasizing the benefits of routines.

I can't stop myself, though, from thinking back to last night, how incredible she felt in my arms, the soft sounds she made, and when she surrendered to the feelings I raised in her, I fell in love with her all over again. Katniss can be closed off, reserved, but last night she was so open, so loving and she gave herself over to me, entrusted me with her pleasure. Her body pressed against mine, small firm breasts tempting me from under her thin dress, softly rounded hips moving against mine, my hands cupping her ass… I'm hard again. I want her so badly. I want to hear her cries of passion again and again, want to cry out with her as we come together. I hope I get the chance, someday. I wonder if I'll even see her tonight or if I've really scared her off this time. I can't think anymore, it hurts. I take a deep, cleansing breath and remember something else the good doctor told me: relationships are like a dance, two steps forward, one step back. I have to have faith that we will keep moving forward in spite of these setbacks.

Reluctantly I pull myself out of bed; I'll go put the dough I prepared yesterday into the oven, then shower while it bakes. Routines…

When I reach the bottom of the stairs I'm struck by the realization that I'm not alone. There is definitely someone here. My heart speeds up, but then I hear humming. Katniss? I'm not wrong; as I enter the kitchen she turns from the stove where she's frying eggs.

"Good morning Peeta," she smiles shyly, blushing faintly. She can't quite meet my eyes, but she's here, she hasn't bolted. I'm hit with a flood of relief and gratitude so overwhelming I'm almost rendered speechless. I can feel myself grinning at her so widely I briefly worry that my face might split.

She takes the eggs off the burner and slides them onto a pair of plates already laid with thick slices of yesterday's bread, toasted. I walk up behind her and wrap my arms around her, burying my face in her hair, which is damp and hangs loose down her back. "You made breakfast?" I finally manage. "Thank you, you didn't have to do that."

"I wanted to," she says, turning in my arms and snuggling into my chest. My heart leaps with joy as I hold her, rocking her gently. She's here, she's in my arms, she hasn't run away. Finally she pulls back and smiles at me. "Come eat, Peeta."

We eat side by side in companionable silence. I'm afraid to say too much, afraid to break the spell.

After breakfast she does head off to the woods, but she kisses me sweetly before she leaves and she looks happy, not like she's running away from me. I climb into the shower once she's left and my hand is wrapped around my cock right away. I'm so pent up that I come almost immediately as I replay in my mind her body rubbing against mine, the way she looked right into my eyes as her orgasm overcame her…

...

The days since have been among the calmest and sweetest of my life. We don't talk about what happened that night, though I think about it constantly. I sense that Katniss needs more time, probably lots more time, before she might be able to move our relationship much further in that direction, and that's okay because she hasn't pulled back this time. In fact, she's been more overtly affectionate, as if she's continually pushing her own boundaries. She touches me more, holds my hand when we walk together, lays her hand on mine when we work on the book, and brushes against me in the kitchen. When I wrap my arms around her she leans into the embrace instead of stiffening and moving away.

And then there are the nights – after more than two years of nighttime holding only terror and desolation for me I look forward to going to bed now. Katniss stays over every night, I don't ask, she simply does and I'll never complain. At night, in the darkness, curled up together in my bed she shows me how she feels, uses her body to tell me the things she can't say out loud. She's timid, still, but her kisses are passionate and needy, her hands roam across my chest or tug at my hair, her mouth explores my neck and throat. It takes all of my self-control to hold back but I do. I return her kisses with fervor, but I don't push her and I keep my hands safely on her back or shoulders, or tangled in her hair, no matter how desperately I want to race ahead. We are discovering each other at her pace; slow, achingly slow, but steady, and oh so incredible. Each night her confidence grows, her touches become less hesitant. I'm constantly in a haze of longing, of pent-up unsatisfied desire, of sexual frustration, and I masturbate more now than I did even when I was an overstimulated 14 year old. And I masturbated a lot when I was 14. Despite that I'm not upset that we go no further, that she doesn't touch my cock or help me find my release, because I know she's afraid. Whether she's afraid of the actions themselves, or afraid of what they signify I'm not sure. I do know she likes what we've been doing, the kissing, the touching, the making out, I feel her body responding, her cheeks flush, her nipples go rigid under her pajamas, the way she squirms and works her thighs together. Unlike me though, I don't think Katniss takes her sexual frustration into her own hands. I wonder how she can think straight?

These steps are new for her; she's never been physically demonstrative in any way, sexual or platonic, except maybe with Prim. Truth be told, the shyness, the tentative way she reaches out to me, the slowness with which we're moving, all of it helps to reinforce for me that the images the Capitol put into my head of her being with Gale are not real. My torturers spent a large amount of time on the Katniss and Gale images, I think because for my fragile psyche they were so much easier to believe than Katniss ordering firebombs or killing people. After all, I'd been jealous of Gale for years, and, like most people who knew them, had assumed that Katniss and Gale were an item anyway. When I'm at my calmest and most rational I know how ridiculous those pictures are, but there will always be that nasty little jealous part of me that whispers _it could have happened_. That jealous part that I allowed to be cruel to her when I saw them together in District 13, that part that even before the hijacking snarled about offending her 'boyfriend' the night of our tribute interviews with Caesar Flickerman. I remember calling Katniss pure before the Quell, though, and the word is just as fitting now as it was then. Seeing her expressions as she observes how I react to her touch, it's so obvious and heart-warming that she's never touched anyone else this way. I suspect that she's never even really thought about it before now.

It's new for me too, I've had girlfriends before but nothing ever progressed very far. Sure, I've kissed girls, quite a few actually, even let my hands wander under a shirt once or twice, but never any further. That long held crush, that obsession with a certain raven haired beauty, made everyone else feel like an imitation. Not that it stopped me from trying, not at first anyway. But since our first Games I've known I'd never be able to be with anyone other than Katniss. Even in the worst of my heartache, of my confusion and anger there has never been anyone else for me, and there never could be. If Katniss is never able to accept me as more than a friend for whatever reason, well, I have hands and a good imagination anyway, and goodness knows I've gotten in a lot of practice. Especially lately. I can't – I won't push her. Where ever we go from here it has to be her decision, it has to be her initiative. I can't risk pushing her away.

Indian summer has given way to true fall and while the days are still mild the nights have gotten cooler. I'm not sure what woke me tonight, the geese maybe, but my eyes pop open in the moonlight and my brain is fully awake, like a switch turned to on. Katniss has rolled away from me, or perhaps I've rolled away from her, and she's sleeping on her back, her arms flung over her head. The sheet has tumbled down, exposing just a few inches of skin where her camisole has ridden up. The moonlight makes the unscarred skin of her firm, flat belly glow and I can't help envisioning what it would be like to put my lips against that skin. I'm certain it would be soft and hot; I want to run my tongue along it, dip into her navel, and then lower, lower… When I glance up I realize that the chill from the open window has made her nipples taut and they are straining against her thin underclothes. The fabric is a little threadbare from age and washing, and I can clearly see the dusky colour of those rigid peaks through it. Immediately I'm as hard as a rock, those sweet breasts are so tempting. I'm so horny I can't think straight. A decent man would pull up the sheet, protect her modesty. Instead I leer at those perfect breasts, round and small but perfectly proportioned for her and I think about how much I want to touch them, to kiss them, to suckle them until she writhes and cries out my name. Before I'm even fully aware of what I'm doing I've slipped my hand into my boxers, and am stroking my cock firmly while my eyes rove over her body.

Her closeness, the lewdness of touching myself while she sleeps mere inches away, maybe even the danger of potentially being caught, all of it combines and I have to turn my face into the pillow quickly to muffle my groan as I come hard, my body shuddering. I can't remember ever having had an orgasm so intense. Katniss, thankfully, sleeps through it all. I lie there for a while longer, listening to her even breaths, calming my own breathing down. My hand and shorts are sticky and my face is burning with shame but the afterglow is so incredibly blissful that I'm reluctant to move. When I feel sleep pressing at the edges of my consciousness I climb out of bed as quietly and carefully as I can and sneak into the bathroom to clean myself up and change into clean shorts.

When I climb back into bed I pull the blankets up over Katniss, tucking them under her chin, then I gather her into my arms and sink rapidly into sleep.


	22. Chapter 22

All of my snares are empty today. It's not surprising, really, it's getting quite late in the season, there'll be snow before much longer, but it's disheartening just the same. I wander the woods for a long while, not shooting, just searching for the peace I usually find out here, but today it's elusive, and I find myself tired and cold and just generally cranky. There's no way I can spend another full day wandering out here, even as much as I love my woods.

I make my way slowly back, not even bothering to be quiet. Not that I'm ever loud of course, but I have no intention of hunting right now. I do spot some oyster mushrooms at the base of a giant oak tree and tuck them into my game bag. It's not much, but at least I'm not coming home empty handed. Tomorrow I'll go to my lake, there might still be ducks there, and plenty of fish.

It's early when I reach Victor's Village, not even noon. I know Peeta won't be home for lunch today, he hasn't been all week. Or last week. He hasn't come home for lunch since his team started construction at the bakery site, except on Sundays when there is no construction. As much as it pains me to admit, I miss him, terribly. It's lonely in the big house without him. I'm lonely at home, I'm lonely in my woods. All of the routines I've been depending on for months seem to have disappeared. The garden is done for the season, covered now in a thick layer of leaves and mulch, resting until next year. I'm sure Dr Aurelius would have plenty of ideas about what I should fill my time with, but I'm not interested in hearing them. I used to be happy being alone, depending only on myself. What's happened to me?

Part of me wants to go home anyway and prove to myself that I don't need anybody, but the piece of me that is lonely and miserable wins out. I contemplate going to see Greasy Sae at her stall in the marketplace, but with an empty game bag and the lunch rush just beginning I'm not sure she'd really have time for me. Delly is still in Thirteen with her brother, and Dalton has his hands too full with building his house and barn to be entertaining me. That leaves Haymitch.

When I try to push the back door to Haymitch's house open I'm met with resistance. It takes a firm shove with my shoulder to open it. When I force it wide enough to squeeze through I can see why: garbage is piled up against it. In fact, nearly the entire kitchen floor is covered in trash. "Haymitch!" I bellow, trying not to gag at the stench of the sink overflowing with dishes and stagnant water. It's early yet, he's probably sleeping, but the state of his kitchen aggravates me enough to want to wake him.

When he staggers into the kitchen I can tell that I haven't woken him, that he's been up long enough to be several drinks into restoring his perpetual drunken state. Or possibly he hasn't slept at all, judging by the deep circles under his eyes. My heart softens a little for him. His nightmares are just as bad as mine and Peeta's, and he's forced to face them alone. My compassion is short-lived though, as Haymitch belches loudly and sneers. "What do you want, Sweetheart?" he growls.

"What happened in here Haymitch? Where's Carter?" I ask, referring to the young woman I hired only a couple of weeks ago to clean Haymitch's house and help keep an eye on him.

"Quit." Is all he offers. I scowl.

"Dammit Haymitch, that's the fifth one!"

"Sixth," he corrects, and I swear I see an amused glint in his eyes. "She said, now how did she put it?" he continues, the amusement becoming more evident. "Oh yes, she said 'there's not enough money in Panem to put up with a degenerate like me'. Then she stormed off. Good riddance, she was bossy anyway." I can't stifle a laugh, before long I will have gone through the entire population of Twelve trying to find someone to look after him.

I begin picking up some of the trash while Haymitch falls into a chair and finds a partial bottle of something on the floor, which he proceeds to drink straight from the bottle. "Have you eaten?" I ask him once I've cleared a path from the door. He shrugs, which I take as a no. I reach for my game bag, hanging from the door knob, and withdraw some of the mushrooms I gathered earlier in the woods. There are eggs in Haymitch's fridge and onions in his nearly bare pantry. With them I throw together a pair of simple omelets, and even find clean plates to put them on. Haymitch plows through his, seemingly without even pausing for a breath and I feel guilty, it's been too long since I checked on him. I push my untouched plate towards him, mumbling about not being hungry. He takes it without comment, being from the Seam neither of us can stand wasting food. He inhales the second omelet almost as quickly as the first, and then leans back in his chair with the nearly empty bottle and a rare look of contentment on his face.

"Your boy doesn't bring me bread anymore," he grouses. There's an uncomfortable squeeze in my chest at his words. Peeta hasn't been baking very much at all lately. He really hasn't been doing any of the things we used to do together. He's so excited to take off to town every morning, and he stays there all day, working on the bakery. In the evenings we still sometimes work a little on the book after dinner but he's distracted. He goes to bed early too, and though I join him he doesn't seem interested in anything but sleep. I miss him so much it hurts.

"He's really busy with the bakery rebuild," I tell Haymitch, and I'm surprised by the note of melancholy in my voice. I know he hears it, but for once he doesn't make fun of me for it.

"You could be down there with him you know, helping him." His voice is soft, not judgemental. I shrug.

"I don't know anything about construction Haymitch, I'd be in the way. I can't imagine the people in charge would want me underfoot."

Haymitch shoots me a look, a look I know well. The look that says he can't quite believe how stupid I am.

"Peeta is in charge, Sweetheart. I have no doubt he'd be happy to find you something to do."

"I know it's his work site, Haymitch," I say, rolling my eyes, "But the guys directing everything aren't going to want me getting in the way of everything."

He shakes his head at me. "Peeta is directing everything. Haven't you been down there at all?"

I scowl at him. "I go every Sunday to see the progress, Haymitch."

"Yeah, but have you been while the men are actually working?" I shake my head, I can't guess what would be different except for the obvious; that workers would be there, working.

"I swear you don't even know that boy sometimes," he says with an odd edge to his voice. "He's in his element out there Sweetheart, interacting with all of those people. Keeping busy. Doing something meaningful." His words sting, I don't like the implication. That I'm not doing anything meaningful or that Peeta wasn't doing anything meaningful when he was spending his days with me. Both probably.

He rises from the table, leaving the empty plates in place. "Go see him. See what he's accomplishing. Be part of it." With that he staggers back out of the kitchen, leaving me alone. Again.

...

There are reasons I'm a good hunter, and the ability to track without being seen is one of them. I've been following Peeta for the better part of two hours already and not a single person has noticed. With the chaos of rebuilding all around town there are plenty of places to hide and still see everything. Right now I'm sitting in the back of a supply cart, huddled between stacks of bricks.

Peeta is only about 30 yards away, close enough that I can hear virtually everything he says. A group of men surround him, hanging on his every word. He speaks to them with authority, when he asks them to do things he doesn't hold back or double check that it's okay to ask. He never once appears flustered, though he's spoken to dozens of people since I've been following him, about dozens of different things.

Most of the men on Peeta's crew are Seam, before the war none of them would likely have ever spoken to Peeta, with his obvious merchant looks, and certainly never worked with him, but now there is an easy comradery among them. But more than that, there's a deep respect. It'd be uplifting… except all I can feel is confusion, tinged with sadness.

I shake my head; this isn't the place to get lost in my thoughts. Silently I slip away, again unnoticed, and make my way out of the town proper. Though I don't intentionally head there I'm not surprised to find myself in the meadow. The meadow grasses are still tall, but now they're frost damaged and yellow. Still, when I fling myself to the cold ground they obscure me completely. I lay there for a long time, watching the clouds drift by as the sky changes from blue to pink to Peeta's favourite orange. Another lifetime ago, before my father died, my mother would sometimes bring Prim and me here, and we'd lie on a blanket, finding shapes in the clouds. I was always terrible at it, they all just looked like clouds to me, but Prim was brilliant. She had such an imagination, such an ability to see potential. I miss her so much. She'd be able to tell me what to do. Because my jaunt through town today proved that Haymitch is right, Peeta is a completely different person when I'm not around.

The Peeta I followed today is confident and outgoing, a born leader. Powerful even. In full control of each situation he steps into. So much like the Peeta who stood up to armed Peacekeepers in District 11 when we were on our Victory Tour. Like the charismatic boy who charmed Caesar Flickerman over and over. Like the Peeta who joined the careers to keep me safe. He's even a little bit like the Peeta who insisted on working Haymitch and me half to death to train us for the Quell, though this Peeta is forceful in a much kinder way.

But the Peeta I followed is nothing like the Peeta who holds me at night. The Peeta who tolerates my kisses and clumsy explorations but who never moves his hands from my hips nor ever initiates anything between us. The Peeta who is quick to pull away and even quicker to hide in the bathroom when things get too intense.

I thought he was tentative, even a little shy, because he was still a bit broken. But the man moving effortlessly between groups of townspeople isn't tentative or broken.

Maybe I make him broken.

He often seems almost wary around me. When I grab his hand or touch his arms there's always a slight hesitation before he responds, like he has to convince himself not to pull back. I didn't see that in any of his interactions today, he was quick to initiate physical contact, to offer a handshake, to clap someone on the back, I think he touched virtually everyone I saw him with today, men and women both. Maybe he's more cautious with me because of the hijacking?

_Or maybe he just doesn't want you._

The thought feels like a kick in the stomach. He loves me, he told me he loves me!

_You're not worthy of his love._

That I know to be true, I've never been worthy of him, and even less so now after all I've done. Another thought pounds in my head: what if he's just putting up with me because he feels sorry for me? Sweet and kind Peeta, caring for the less fortunate has always been his way. Is damaged, insane Katniss a project for him? _Worthless, you're worthless_.

I press the heels of my hands into my eyes, hard, until lights burst behind them. _Stop stop stop_ I plead with the voices in my head.

When I open my eyes again I'm staring at millions of stars suspended in a pitch black sky. And I'm freezing cold. _Shit_! I don't know how I could possibly have fallen asleep on the cold ground in the meadow but I must have, and it's late. The night is moonless and I'm disoriented, when I rise shakily to my feet I'm stiff and achy from the cold which feels like it has frozen all of my joints. I walk back to Victor's Village as quickly as my aching body will allow. Peeta will be frantic, wondering where I am.

But when I approach the house it's mostly dark.

There's a small light on in the kitchen, I enter through that door but Peeta isn't there. A plate of dinner, my dinner I guess, sits on the stove. Cold. I tip toe through the main floor, he must have had an episode, be cowering in a corner somewhere. But the main floor is empty.

I work my way upstairs with my heart hammering in my chest, and am shocked when I find him in his bedroom. In his bed.

Fast asleep.

Still, I approach him quietly, cautiously, but he's definitely sleeping, not passed out. He's dressed in pajamas, curled up on his side, snoring softly. Peeta is not a night owl by any definition, but it's only 8:30. He ate dinner and went to bed without even wondering where I was? Even though I've had dinner with him every single day for months? Wasn't he concerned about me? I could have been injured or dead, didn't he care?

I lower myself to sit on the floor cross-legged, the cold still hasn't fully left my joints and it's uncomfortable to sit like this but I stay for a couple of hours, looking at him, trying to figure him out, but Peeta is as confusing in sleep as he is awake. In the darkness I can't see his features, I can only make out the shape of him, can barely discern the soft rise and fall of his shoulder as he breathes in the slow, even way that suggests deep sleep.

I war with myself, I want to run back to my own house and lock the door, show him that I don't need him either, but the thought of facing the night alone keeps me rooted to the spot. Finally I climb into bed beside him, still dressed in my hunting clothes. I lie with my back to his back, on the very edge of the bed, 18 inches of space between us. Sleep isn't going to come easily tonight I'm sure, with the unintentional nap I took earlier and all of the thoughts swirling in my head. Staring out the window at the blackness, the loneliness presses down on me again. Without my permission silent tears begin to slip down my cheeks.

I feel the bed move as Peeta rolls over behind me and I hold my breath. His arm reaches over and draws me towards him, my back to his chest. For a moment I melt into him, his warmth, the security of his embrace. But his breathing is so deep and even that I'm certain he's still sleeping. I'm sure he doesn't even realize I'm here; his body is just so used to reaching for me in the night that he does it subconsciously.

My tears fall a little less silently, until I'm choking back sobs, trying not to wake him.

It is a couple of hours before dawn when I give up on the idea of sleeping and drag myself out of bed, feeling miserable. Not wanting to wake Peeta I make my way downstairs silently. I get ready in the little washroom off the kitchen, the mirror above the sink revealing red rimmed eyes and puffy cheeks. My dinner from last night still sits on the stove, untouched. Impulsively I take the food off the plate and wrap it in a bit of paper, tucking that into a bag along with a waterskin. Then I head out into the cold and begin walking to my father's lake. I hope I'll feel his spirit there today. I need him.


	23. Chapter 23

I don't understand how everything has changed so profoundly, how the life I've been building with Katniss could have disintegrated so fully in just a few short weeks. The anniversary of the end of the war is coming, and maybe that's the reason for the pall that hangs over us. I know that it'll be harder on Katniss than on the rest of us, since it's the day that she lost the most important person in her world, but I guess I just expected it'd be something we would get through together. Instead she's been steadily retreating into herself, backing further and further away from me. Away from us. I can tell she's hurting but she won't share her pain with me, won't let me in. The wall between us feels bigger than it ever has before, feels like every day she builds it higher and thicker. She sneaks out of my house in the morning before I wake up and comes back long after dark, skipping dinner entirely. She barely speaks to me when she does arrive, game bag empty, eyes empty, despite my efforts to draw her out. She still sleeps in my bed, but when I pull her into my arms she is passive, neither pulling me in nor pushing me away, simply laying there as if I don't exist. I'm unsure if she sleeps at all, I haven't felt her drop off even once in a week. I've felt her little body tremble against me with repressed sobs, but she doesn't let them out, won't invite me into her grief, won't accept my comfort.

And there is nothing I can do about it. I give her the space she seems to think she needs, not because I agree, but because I have no other choice. My every attempt to pull her closer has caused her to withdraw more. So I hold my tongue and my breath and try to just be here for her, hoping that she'll see me. Hoping that she'll accept me.

I know it's not rational to be upset or angry about it, she needs to work through her grief in her own time, but I'm not always rational, and the rejection, intentional or not, stings. The pain, the confusion, the loneliness combine and I find it harder and harder to hold myself together, to keep the flashbacks from taking over.

I've thrown myself into the bakery construction to help keep my mind off my heartache, and to fill the empty hours. I'm the first one at the site most days, and as Katniss continues to stay out well past dinner every night so too do I stay later and later at the bakery. I wish she'd just tell me what's going on in her head, but she won't. She doesn't even have the decency to tell me when she won't be there for dinner, despite our shared dinners having been part of our routine for months. _'Why should she, it's not like she's your wife,_' my mind snarls at me, and my heart aches. No, she's not my wife. I don't even know how to categorize what we are. I love her, and I know she feels something for me, though she might not even really know what that is herself. Is she my girlfriend? Somehow I think she'd bristle at that label. Are we courting? Are we just friends? 'Friends' seems ridiculous, friends don't make out. Of course, neither do Katniss and I, not lately anyway. All of the progress we made, it feels like it's all been undone and she won't even tell me why.

At least we've made good headway on the bakery over the past month, if nothing else. The exterior is nearly finished and while I'm still deciding on ovens and counters for the inside, I'll have to order them soon because the crew is almost ready for them. The sun has already set when I come around to a little lean-to in back of the new bakery that Thom is using as a site office, and stick my head in to say goodbye before heading home. Thom is sitting with a couple of the other men, discussing blueprints. I catch his eye, intending just to wave, but he motions me over.

"Peeta, I forgot to mention, you'll be havin' some new neighbours soon. The Hawthornes are comin' back to Twelve, be movin' into the house next to Haymitch." I struggle to maintain a neutral expression while my stomach flips. The Hawthornes. _Gale_.

"It'll be great to see Hazelle again," I say, pleased that my voice sounds even and light despite my turmoil. And it **will** be great to see Hazelle, she was one of the few people who spoke to me on a regular basis during my Victor's Village exile between Games, nothing more than a friendly hello as she came and went from cleaning Haymitch's place, but it was so much more than any of my old friends from town, more even than my own family. "Is Gale coming with them?" It slips out before I can stop it.

Thom looks vaguely uncomfortable. "Naw," he says, looking away. "Gale's got that big job with the new government, he's pretty important I think." I nod, I've seen him on the television from time to time, he's been ascending the ranks quickly for someone so young. "Anyway, Hazelle and the kids are due to arrive later this month, before the Harvest Festival."

I smile genuinely at this, it'll be nice to have more people in the Victor's Village, it's so quiet out there. "Thanks for letting me know Thom. I'm going to head home now. See you tomorrow." He waves and turns back to the crew as I head out of the shack, but I've only gone a few steps when I remember that the builder's catalogue I need to choose the bakery fittings from is still in the office.

Just before I get back to the door I hear one of the crew, Kip I think, say "you know that job isn't the only reason Gale isn't coming back." I freeze in my tracks.

"It's none of our business, Kip," Thom replies.

"He asks about her every time I talk to him," Kip answers. I know I shouldn't be eavesdropping but I can't help myself. I stand, stock still, my breathing shallow.

"Yer not tellin' him anything are ya?" Thom asks.

"You know I'm not, but I'm not the only one he's asking. He still calls her all of the time." _Calls her? Calls who? _ I wonder. There are still very few of us in District 12 with telephones. They're more common now than before the war, but only just. Is he calling Katniss? _No, she would have told me. Wouldn't she_? _She wouldn't keep something like that from me. I don't think she would._ "Look, if anyone deserves privacy it's Miss Katniss," Kip continues in an odd, almost reverent tone. I snicker despite myself, losing track of my train of thought. Clearly I'm not the only one Katniss has an effect on, I'm reasonably sure that Kip harbours a crush on her too.

"They both do. Leave it be, Kip," Thom says with an air of finality. _Both_? _Katniss and…_ _Gale_? My head is spinning now, have they been communicating? She hadn't mentioned it to me, hadn't said his name even once that I can remember in all of the months we've been back. No, I'm just misunderstanding what I've heard, I'm sure.

Forgetting the catalogue again I turn for home, but as I walk I keep replaying the conversation in my mind. _He still calls her all of the time. _She's not talking to Gale. She doesn't want Gale. If she did, he would be here with her. Or she'd be with him. But how could she be there with him, she's confined to 12? _Would she be with him if she could? Is it his comfort she's longing for_? By the time I reach my house I've worked myself into a frenzy, my thoughts are swirling, the heartache of those long, lonely months after the first Games mingling with shiny images of Katniss and Gale together. _Not real not real not real_.

The lights are on in my house tonight, for the first time in a couple of weeks she's home before me. I walk through the front door and hear her voice coming from the study. Although I'm not quiet, Katniss doesn't seem to hear me approach. She's completely preoccupied, talking on the telephone, looking out the window; her expression is one of melancholy and longing. Again I find myself eavesdropping, but I just can't help myself. I stand outside the door, heart pounding, hands clenching and unclenching as she talks to someone the way she hasn't spoken with me in so very long.

"I want to see you too, I do," her voice is gentle, tender, and exquisitely sad. "I just can't. I can't leave here yet." She closes her eyes, pressing her forehead against the window pane. Even from here I can see her throat move as she swallows thickly and I know she's fighting back tears. She takes a deep breath, "You could come here for a visit sometime?" then a pause while she listens. "Yeah, I know. No, I understand." She's silent for a while. "I'm glad you're enjoying your work out there. I know how important it is." Another pause, then she barely whispers "I really am happy for you."

My head is pounding, rage building, I'm not certain if it's from the tracker jacker venom or if it's all my own. I try vainly to control my breathing, to talk myself down. _Give her a chance to explain Peeta,_ I tell myself. I'm just about to call out to Katniss when I hear her, so very softly, say into the phone "I love you too," and just like that the rage dissipates, replaced by an overwhelming agony. She loves him. She loves Gale; she's stuck here, biding her time with me while she waits for him. I feel like I have ice water in my veins, a cold unfeelingness washing over me. _No_, I think. _I won't let this happen again_.


	24. Chapter 24

I hang up the phone and stand for a few minutes with my head pressed against the cold glass of the window, eyes closed, concentrating on my breathing like Dr. Aurelius taught me: in through the nose, out through the mouth. _Get it together Katniss; you knew you'd have to face her eventually_. Yeah, but I hoped eventually would be a lot further away. I thought I'd written my mother off completely after we last spoke, convinced myself that I didn't need her; after all I hadn't really needed her in years, I've been raising myself since I was eleven, and after everything we'd said to each other...

When I'd picked up the phone though, once I pushed past the anger, the sound of her voice filled me with longing. I miss her, despite everything, despite her abandonment, despite the terrible things she said last time we spoke. _Terrible, but true _I remind myself. I'm not sure I'm ready to see the new life she's built without me just yet, I told her as much and she sounded disappointed, but she understood. There is still so much hurt between us, but after talking to her I feel like maybe, in time, we might be able to build some sort of relationship again. I even told her I love her, I haven't said that since the reaping, the first one, and it felt foreign on my tongue, but also true.

Now I'm trembling, overwhelmed, flooded with memories of before, memories of our little house in the Seam, my father, Prim, always Prim, the simplicity of my life before the accident in the mines, before the Games, before the war. I shake my head to clear it, to push away the melancholy, the blackness that threatens to engulf me, and as I do I notice Peeta standing in the hallway, just beyond the door. Strangely, I didn't hear him walk up. I stiffen; I'm not ready to talk about my mother and my conflicted feelings. Especially not to Peeta, who I know has so many mixed emotions about his own family. He has enough pain. "How long have you been there?" I ask him. My voice comes out sharper than I intend as I try to choke back my surprise.

He huffs, "Long enough." His jaw is tense, and I realize he's angry. I'm worried for a moment that he's having a flashback, but his hands, though fisted, are not shaking, and his eyes are clear. The look in them is familiar though. The wariness, the mistrust, the anger; I last saw him looking at me that way in Thirteen, the look that said _I can see you for who you really are_. My heart sinks. He must see my face fall because he continues, "I can't go on like this, I can't be the guy you got stuck with Katniss."

_Well that's not what I was expecting_. I open my mouth to protest, but Peeta cuts me off. "No, don't bother; I know this isn't what you want. I thought maybe if I was patient enough, in time you'd come to love me. But I can't be your fallback position anymore; I can't be the person you're with while you wait for the one you want." I'm shaking my head, I want to tell him that he's the one I want, the one I waited for, but the look on his face traps the words in my throat. I take a step towards him but he steps back, his hands held in front of him. "No!" he almost yells, I stop dead in my tracks, eyes wide. "No", he says more quietly this time, but still forcefully. "I refuse to end up like my mother. She knew she was my father's second choice. I don't think she was always a hateful, bitter woman Katniss, but she was angry and humiliated, she never felt like she was enough for him and it twisted her, turned her into a monster. I won't let that happen to me." He's trembling, I want so much to hold him, to tell him that he's wrong, that he isn't second best. I take another tentative step towards him, this time he doesn't yell, but he turns away, so that I'm staring at his profile, his jaw set like stone, arms crossed over his chest.

"Peeta, no, please," I start, but again he cuts me off, though he doesn't look at me this time. "Just go Katniss. Just leave. Please." He sounds so resigned, defeated. I suppress a sob; I did this to him, I've pushed him away too many times, I've broken him with my indecision, with my cowardice. I take one more step and he turns on his heel and walks towards the stairs. "I need to be alone," he says, and ascends the steps without looking back. I stand for a while, staring at the ceiling, listening to him shuffle around upstairs. Pacing, I think. I know I should follow him, should beg him to forgive me, but I'm paralyzed. _Worthless. I'm worthless_. With a heavy heart I gather my father's hunting jacket from the hook in the hallway, and my bow, and walk out across the green and into the night.

I open the door to my house. I haven't been here in weeks. My things have mostly migrated to Peeta's house; we never officially decided to live together but I've been there every night, and all of the days too. I have been thinking of his house as our home. _Home_, I think bitterly, _I don't have a home, not really_. This place is a mausoleum, filled with reminders of people who are gone. I don't bother turning on any lights. I don't want to disturb the ghosts.

I slip off my wet boots and on silent sock feet move back into the kitchen, curl up in the rocking chair in front of the empty fireplace. The familiarity hurts; I remember the blackness, the emptiness that chained me to this chair for months on my return to District 12. I'd been waiting then, waiting for a reason to climb out of the yawning pit of despair, and it had come. Now I have nothing left to wait for. The knowledge is heartbreaking, but also strangely liberating. _No one really needs me anymore,_ I think. Prim is gone, my mother is happy in her new life without me, the district rebuilding is coming along nicely, even Haymitch is, well if not happy, at least back to his version of normal. _And Peeta_. Here my tears start to fall, _Peeta deserves happiness_. He won't find it if I'm here, in his way. Even as hurt and angry as he is, I know he won't be able to move on if I'm around. He's too good and too kind, he won't risk hurting me. "_You could live a hundred lifetimes and not deserve him_." Oh Haymitch, how right you were. Completely alone, I allow myself the luxury of mourning what could have been, what Peeta and I might have had together if only I hadn't been so afraid, so mistrustful, so cowardly. I cry until I have nothing left, then rock myself to sleep in the hard chair.

When I wake up some hours later it's dark and so cold, I'm stiff from sleeping in the chair and heartsick, teetering on the edge of the blackness, but I've made up my mind.

I hear Peeta's voice in my head, as clearly as if he'd said the words yesterday, instead of more than a year ago. "_We'll write letters, Katniss, it'll be better anyway. Give them a piece of us to hold on to_." Yes, something to hold on to, something more tangible than memories of a demented, cowardly, sullen girl with patchwork skin and a perpetual scowl. In my mind I list all of the people I need to write to, all of the people I haven't thanked: Greasy Sae, Haymitch, Thom, Dalton, Johanna, there are so many more, but in the end I write only one letter, and only a single sheet of paper. I never was much of a letter writer after all. I fold the letter neatly and tuck it into one of the heavy Capitol envelopes I find in the study, the very room where Snow told me I needed to convince him of my love for Peeta. Now the person I can't convince is Peeta himself, though I guess I've never really tried.

Almost as an afterthought I retrieve my pearl from where it's hidden in my old bedroom. Somehow it made it through the fire that took Prim, and a doctor from the burn unit mailed it back to me shortly after I was sent back to District 12. Instinctively I roll it back and forth across my lips, like I did so many nights in 13, but it doesn't bring me comfort anymore, not now that I've tasted the real thing. Its cool surface is a poor substitute for Peeta's soft, warm lips.

I tuck the pearl into the envelope and leave it on the kitchen table, along with the bow my father made. Eventually he'll find the letter, and I think he'll understand what to do with the bow.

I take one last look around. There's nothing of importance in this house, it never felt like home to me, and even less so without Prim. I slip out into the night; it's still a couple of hours until dawn. There's a light on at Haymitch's house but he's probably raving drunk now anyway, he never intentionally sleeps in the dark but by this hour he's generally passed out, or close to it. The other houses are all dark. I allow myself a final, lingering look at Peeta's house; the pain that wells up in my chest is almost overwhelming. I bite my lip hard, and straightening my back put three fingers to my lips, and then extend them out in farewell. I pivot on my heel and head for the fence.


	25. Chapter 25

I barely make it up the stairs before the tremors start, blackness pushing into the edges of my mind, fear screaming through my veins, shiny memories overtaking my vision. _Not real, not real, not real_. I pace, I dig my nails into my palms, try to control my breathing but I know there is no stopping the demons this time, not without her. _Without her_. When I can fight no longer I work my way down to the basement and somehow manage to lock myself in. I crumple to the ground, pulling my hair, punching the concrete floor until the blackness overtakes me.

…

I have a pounding headache. That's the first thing I'm aware of. As the world comes back into focus I realize that I'm curled up on the basement floor, cold and achy. The light coming through the cellar window suggests that the day is well underway. I struggle to push myself up and get my bearings, and the evening floods back to me. The anger is gone, and I'm left with an awful grief, an aching emptiness. I climb the stairs and let myself back into the kitchen, the fire is out and the house is empty. _She's gone. _

I relight the fire and glance at the clock, flinching: almost noon. I was out of it a lot longer than usual I think, dismayed. It's too late, really, to head to the bakery site, and I'm feeling awful anyway. I should eat something, I haven't since yesterday lunch but I don't think I can stomach anything. I pace for a while, feeling disoriented and disconnected, not sure what to do with myself. Finally I decide to take a bath.

The hot water soothes my cramped muscles while it makes my hands, covered in cuts and bruises from my long night in the cellar, ache. I lay back in the deep tub thinking about her, _Katniss,_ how could I have been so wrong? I think about her small form curled up against me at night, the gentle way she touched me, the soft smiles. I can feel her in my arms, how she would cling to me after her nightmares, how she would bury her face in my chest when she was overcome working on the book. _Real, all of these things felt real_. The way she would cradle my head to her chest after one of my flashbacks, murmuring sweet words in my ears, leaving gentle kisses on my cheeks and temples. How she would take my hand when we walked to town. I'm so confused. I love her. I need her, but am I what she needs? Am I who she wants?

I rise from my bath and shuffle into my bedroom, and it's as if she's surrounding me, her sweater hanging from the bedpost, her hairbrush on the dresser, her scent on the pillows. Every fiber of my being wants to run to her, but I can't, not this time. I lie down in my bed and let the tears come.

When I rise late in the evening it's with a sense of purpose. I need to help Katniss, to figure out how to get her confinement to District 12 lifted. Then she can go to Gale, sort out her feelings for him, her feelings for me, too, whatever they may be. After everything, she deserves to be happy, I want her to be happy, I love her so much. I make myself a small meal, but the quiet of the house presses down on me and I barely pick at my food before deciding instead to paint away my misery.

...

I'm up before dawn baking bread, it's been a long time since I've baked on a weekday and I hadn't realized how much I missed it. I head out to my job site bearing a few warm loaves for the crew. I immerse myself in the work, the physical labour helps wash away some of the mental fatigue though it's clear I'm distracted and clumsy. By one o'clock Thom is clapping me on the shoulder, suggesting I go home. "Think you're still a bit under the weather Peeta. Probably could use some more rest," he suggests. I want to protest but the truth is I'm exhausted; I painted nearly all night, sleeping only a couple of hours in the chair in my studio before the nightmares woke me.

I return to Victor's Village, stopping at my house only long enough to pull a loaf of bread from the bread box, then head to Haymitch's place. I steal a glance at Katniss's house on my way but it gives no clues as to its occupant. Haymitch is sleeping on the couch, flask cradled in one arm. It's a risk waking him at this time of the day, but I need his help. "Haymitch", I call loudly, nudging him with the toe of my boot. I know better than to get too close; he's likely to wake up swinging, which he does, his knife missing me by at least a foot. "Haymitch, I need your help".

He groans, sitting up and stretching before fixing me with a dirty look. "This better be good," he scowls. I hand him the bread, like a peace offering, and he breaks off a chunk, stuffing it into his mouth without fanfare. I sit in an armchair across from him and begin.

"What can we do to free Katniss?"

"Huh?" he counters, crumbs flying. "What kind of nonsense is rattling around in that head of yours now boy?"

"Her confinement, you know? She has to stay in District Twelve. I want to help her get, well, unconfined. I want her to be free to go where she needs to go. I don't want her to be stuck here anymore." I'm babbling; the words don't flow the way they should, I'm just too worked up.

Haymitch looks at me for a long while, not speaking, a single eyebrow lifted. Finally, he says, cautiously, "she's not confined here anymore kid. They lifted that when she turned eighteen, back in the spring. She doesn't stay here because she **has** to. She wants to be here. This is her home."

My mind is reeling. _She's not confined? She wants to be here? No, that can't be_. "Does she know, Haymitch? That she can leave Twelve?" His expression is perplexed.

"Of course she knows. There were papers we had to sign. The whole confinement thing was mostly for show anyway, Paylor knew Katniss wasn't insane when she killed Coin, but it would have looked pretty bad to come out and say it. Why does it matter?" at this he turns away and fiddles with his flask. "She's not planning on travelling anyway," he mumbles.

I can't make sense of this. I know what I overhead, she said she couldn't go yet.

"Haymitch, I heard her say that she couldn't leave. She was talking on the telephone. To… to Gale…" my voice catches on his name as a flare of pain squeezes my chest. Haymitch snaps his head back towards me.

"Gale? She hasn't spoken to him since the Capitol. Last time I mentioned him she threw a glass at my head." His brow furrows and he regards me suspiciously. "Are you sure she was speaking with Gale? Did you ask her who she was talking to?"

I can feel the heat creeping into my cheeks as I look down at my feet. "No," I mumble, "but she told him she loved him, who else could it be? She doesn't talk to Dr. Aurelius or Johanna that way!" My anger is rising again, though I'm not entirely sure if I'm angry with her, or with myself. Haymitch sighs. I chance a look at him; he's rubbing his face absently with a grubby hand, looking tired.

"Her mother," he starts, and then pauses, staring at a fixed point in space. I wait for him to continue, but he seems lost in his thoughts.

"What about her mother?" I prompt.

He sighs again. "She called me. Two days ago, I think. I gave her your number since Sweetheart is never at her house anymore."

"What?" now my anger is aimed squarely at Haymitch. "Why did you do that? Don't you remember the last time they spoke?" my voice raises at the end with barely contained fury, the memory of Katniss, broken on the floor, still clutching the phone in her hand, flashes in front of my eyes.

He shrugs. "She's her mother, kid," he says simply.

"Some mother," I scoff. "Abandoned her, twice, damn near destroyed her."

"Maybe not a good mother, no, but it's for Katniss to decide if she wants anything to do with her. Not me. They've got stuff they need to say to each other. Sweetheart needs to face that. To heal."

It's my turn to sigh, because he's right, I know her unresolved feelings about her mother weigh heavily on Katniss.

"Did Katniss come here after the call? Did she speak with you?" I can't meet his eyes.

"Kid, I haven't seen Katniss in days. I assumed she was holed up at your place, like usual."

Bile is rising in my throat and my heart is racing. "We argued, Tuesday, and she," I pause here, unwilling to admit that I'd pretty much thrown her out of the house. "She, uh, left, and, uh," I draw a deep shuddering breath, "and I haven't seen her since." I can barely squeeze the words out.

"You argued?" he says evenly, but his eyes flash and I can tell he's already guessed what transpired.

"Yeah, well, not an argument so much as me flying off the handle. I don't think she said a word actually." I can see her face in my mind; the sad, bewildered eyes, the slumped shoulders. She hadn't put up a fight; she hadn't even defended herself. I feel sick. _What have I done_?

"Peeta," his voice is serious now, his eyes sober and sharp. "Tuesday was two days ago. I haven't seen any movement at her house, no smoke from the chimney," I don't let him continue, turning on my heel and sprinting as quickly as my bad leg will allow across the lawn to her house.

I rap sharply on the door. "Katniss?" I call. I'm met with silence. Haymitch has caught up and reaches past me to try the knob. It's not locked. The door swings open with a groan of disuse. The house is quiet and stone cold, a thin layer of dust everywhere speaking of its vacancy. I take the stairs to the second floor two at a time, calling for her as I do. Her bedroom is empty too; the bedside tables are bare except for dust. The bathroom contains nothing, not even a toothbrush. I'd pushed her from the home we had essentially been sharing without even a thought as to what waited for her here, the nothingness, this shell of a house with only ghosts. A cursory glance into the other rooms and closets reveals nothing, but I'm not surprised. This whole place screams of desertion.

My steps are much heavier as I slowly descend and work my way back to the kitchen. It's empty except for our drunken mentor sitting at the table, staring at Katniss's bow and quiver of arrows, beneath which lies a small white envelope bearing my name. My heart sinks.

"You gonna open it or what?" Haymitch's voice snaps me out of my stupor. With trembling hands I unseal the envelope. Something small and shiny rolls into my hand and when I recognise it I'm stunned. It can't be… but it is, I'm sure of it. I close my fist tightly around what I'm certain is the pearl I gave Katniss in the Quarter Quell. I can't believe she still has it. I resist the urge to bring it to my lips, and instead pull a single sheet from the envelope and read.

_Dear Peeta;_

_I'm so sorry. All I ever do is hurt you. I've hurt you so many times, let you down, and disappointed you. I don't want to do that anymore. I'm sorry that I never found the courage to tell you how I feel about you until it was too late. I'm sorry that I never told you how proud I am of you; your bravery, your strength, your unwavering goodness. I'm sorry that I never thanked you for returning to District 12, for returning to me, and I'm sorry that I never let you know how much having you here with me has meant to me. I've never once thanked you for chasing away my nightmares, for being my tether to sanity._

_I heard you and Gale when you were talking in the basement of Tigris' shop last year. He said then that I would choose the person I couldn't survive without, but he was wrong: I don't need anyone to survive. But I can't live, can't truly live, without you, Peeta. And besides, I'd chosen long before then. In many ways that choice was made when we were eleven._

_Thank you for the bread._

I don't realize that I'm crying until tears drip onto the paper. I hold in my hand everything I've ever yearned to hear her say, everything I've ever dreamed she might feel for me, and more, but it is hollow without her beside me. I need to find her, to beg her forgiveness, to try to right this wrong I've committed. I threw her away, abandoned her like so many people have before, and instead of anger she had responded with apologies.

I feel heartsick, utterly eviscerated, but more than that I feel a terror welling up inside. She can't live without me? And no one has seen her in two days? I turn to Haymitch with wide, terrified eyes. He snatches the note from my hand without waiting for permission and scans it quickly. His shoulders slump, but he doesn't look surprised.

"We have to find her Haymitch. Where could she have gone?"

He's quiet for what feels like an eternity, and when he finally speaks his voice is thick with emotion. "When Sweetheart's trial was over and she was released it was almost too late. She hadn't eaten or drank in days; she was skin and bones, barely conscious. She'd given up, and I think she was trying to starve herself to death." I gasp; he glances over at me and continues. "When we returned to Twelve I hired Greasy Sae to come twice a day to feed her. Katniss never made any attempt to eat except what Sae could force into her, she didn't bathe, she didn't move from her chair in front of the fire for nearly two months. Two months Peeta! Do you know when she finally started to come around?" I shake my head, though I'm pretty sure I know what he's going to say. He shoots me a dirty look, "Yeah, I think you do. She got out of that chair the day you came back. When Sae found her that morning, showered and dressed, talking, eating without being spoon fed, she thought it was a miracle, boy. We both thought Katniss might have been gone forever. Turns out she was just waiting." He doesn't finish that thought, but I understand the implication. She was waiting for me.

"What have I done?" I whisper.

Haymitch pushes himself out of the chair. "We'd better start looking for her. I hope we're not too late." His face is grim. "I'm going to find Thom and round up as many of the men as I can find to search the woods. You check out the empty houses in Victor's Village." He storms out the door without waiting for a reply.

_The woods_. Of course that's where she will have gone, but she didn't take her bow and it's so cold at night now that there is very little left to gather; no greens, no berries. She went into the woods unarmed and with nothing but the clothes on her back, maybe two days ago. A black feeling of hopelessness washes over me and I sink to the floor, my head in my hands, shaking. _My beautiful Katniss_. I let my mind drift to happier times, working side by side in the garden, sleeping together in my bed, her small warm body curled into my chest, that incredible night when I gave her the painting of her lake.

The lake! I snap out of my reverie, remembering the stone cottage near the lake; she had pointed it out to me but we hadn't ventured inside. Could she be there? It would make sense; she often goes to the lake when she's troubled, it's a sacred spot for her, a place where she feels her father's presence. I stumble to my feet and run, ignoring Haymitch's directive, tucking the tiny pearl into my breast pocket as I do. Right beside my heart.

I reach the gap in the fence surrounding the district and push through, into the trees. It's been awhile since Katniss took me to the lake, and the bare trees holding only the most stubborn of fall leaves look very different, but I think I remember the way. I hope I do. Over and over as I journey I question the path I've chosen but still I plow forward.

It takes nearly two hours before I finally crest a hill and am looking down into the valley that I remember from our previous visit. I can make out the lake, dappled in the last of the setting sun, fingers of gold caressing the deep blue surface. In another mindset I might have paused to admire the quiet beauty of the landscape as it starts its decline into winter slumber, but right now my mind is reeling, trying desperately to remember which way the cabin lies. I stop and force myself to take deep, calming breaths, puffs of fog escaping into the rapidly cooling air. I take a moment to assess the absurdity of my situation: standing deep in the woods, unarmed, as darkness falls and the temperature rapidly drops. No one knows where I am. Only the realization that Katniss, too, is likely in the same situation, and has been for maybe 2 days, spurs me on.

I descend into the valley heading vaguely northward, then pick my way along the rocky shoreline, until I catch a flash of orange out of the corner of my eye. The last of the setting sun reflects off a single wavy pane of glass on a derelict cabin tucked into an overgrown copse of trees perhaps a hundred yards away.

I walk carefully along the faint trace of a path, cautious in the dim, afraid of falling and, if I'm being honest with myself, afraid of what I might find. I circle around to the door, gently pushing it open.

The tiny cabin is cold inside, colder than outside even, and dark. At first it appears empty, but as my eyes adjust to the darkness I make out a small form curled on the floor in front of the hearth. Her name is torn from my lips, half scream, half moan, but the form doesn't stir. Heart pounding, vision swimming, I cross the room and kneel beside her.

"Katniss," I gasp, touching her shoulder, turning her towards me. She's so very still, and so cold, her lips appearing almost blue in the dim. With shaking hands I gently touch her neck, and then sob with relief as I feel her pulse thrumming beneath my fingers. I gather her into my arms, rocking her as I hold her tightly, kissing her hair, trying to use my body heat to warm her, but I know it won't be enough. I need to get her warm.

It's fully dark now, and a cold wind is blowing through the two windows that are devoid of glass. There is a small pile of well-seasoned wood next to the fireplace, but no sign that she'd attempted to start a fire. I reluctantly set her gently down and quickly stack some of the wood, grateful for the box of matches I keep in my coat pocket. I can start a fire without them; a skill that came in handy during the Games, but it's faster with matches. The dry wood catches easily, and I settle in front of the fire, cradling Katniss on my lap and wrapping my jacket around both of us as warmth begins to emanate from the flames, driving back the cold.

My tears come in earnest as I rock her, so still and slight, covering her delicate face with kisses, murmuring vows into her hair, promising to never again let her out of my arms if only she'll come back to me.

In the glow of the firelight I can see the colour slowly returning to her cheeks and lips, and after a while she begins to stir. "Katniss?" I whisper, bringing my hand up to stroke her cheek, push the loose hairs off her forehead. Her eyes open briefly, unfocused, before fluttering closed again. "Katniss," I try again, more insistently. Her eyes open again, squinting in confusion.

"Peeta?" Her voice is raspy, but I've never heard a more beautiful sound.

"I'm here, my love, oh Katniss. I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry, my love," endearments tumble from my lips unbidden as I hold her more tightly, so overjoyed I am to see those silvery eyes that I love.

A drowsy half smile flickers across her face as her eyes droop and close and she snuggles into my chest. "I love you Peeta," she whispers so softly I can't be sure it was even real, but my heart soars nonetheless. I keep rocking her, nose buried in her sweet smelling hair, warming her by the fire, whispering my love, hoping that she hears it, hoping that she believes it.

An hour passes, then another. I've fed all of the wood into the flames and now the fire is dying down. I know I'll have to gather more wood, but I just don't want to let go of her, and I'm more than a little nervous about going out into the dark forest alone. Just when I've decided that I can wait no longer, I faintly hear deep voices far in the distance, calling my name and hers.

"Thom!" I yell over my shoulder, relief flooding me. "Thom, in here, hurry!"

"Peeta!" I hear him reply, closer now. A minute later the flickering light of a lantern fills the little cottage as Thom bursts through the door, another man close at his heels. "We followed your trail, and then saw the smoke," Thom says breathlessly, stopping short at the sight of Katniss unconscious in my arms. "Is she…" he begins.

"She's alive, but she was near frozen when I found her Thom. We need to get her back." My voice sounds panicked, even to myself. The second man comes forward, carrying a small medical kit. Thom introduces him as Brody, a medic formerly from 13 who has immigrated to 12, but I barely register his words. Brody is cursorily examining Katniss, taking her temperature, checking her pulse and pupils, but he never once asks me to release her. I think maybe he understands that I cannot.

"Her core temperature is low but her vitals are stable." He pulls a thin metallic-looking sheet from the kit. "Can you carry her, Peeta?" I nod, and he continues, "I'm going to wrap this around both of you then; it'll reflect your body heat to help warm her while we head back."

Once that's accomplished Thom stamps out the embers of our fire and we head out into the cold night, Thom leading, holding his lantern high, Brody bringing up the rear, blowing a shrill whistle every few minutes to alert other searchers who join our retreat two by two.

The darkness and uneven terrain slows our progress, but I feel Katniss snake her slender arms around my neck and tuck her head into the crook of my shoulder, and my exhaustion dissipates. She's in my arms and I'll never again let her go.


	26. Chapter 26

I'm so perfectly warm, cocooned in blankets, wrapped in strong arms as the pale light of dawn filters through the window. I'm wearing only my underclothes and my head rests on Peeta's bare chest, his heartbeat steady in my ear, my favourite sound. Our bare legs are twined together under the blankets and I can feel his cheek against my head, his even breathing making wisps of my hair flutter. I remember him saying once, on the training centre roof, that he wanted to freeze time and live in that moment forever, and I can't help thinking that this moment right now, feeling safe and protected and loved, this would be a nice moment to stay in forever. A little sigh escapes my lips.

Peeta's arms tighten around me, and his head shifts to kiss my hair, inhaling deeply before he pulls back slightly. I tip my head up and open my eyes slowly. As the world comes into focus I find myself looking into brilliant blue orbs almost glowing in the thin light of the rising sun. His gaze is so intense that my stomach flutters. I reach up and cup his face in my hand, rubbing my thumb gently over the golden stubble growing there. His eyes close as he leans into my touch, his impossibly long eyelashes brushing his cheek. We stay that way for several minutes, not talking, unmoving and silent while I admire his strong jaw, straight nose. I slide my thumb down and skirt it along his full lower lip. His eyes snap open instantly, fixing to mine again with the same intensity and my heart jumps. My hand falters and falls away. I drop my eyes as I feel tears threatening.

"I'm sorry Peeta," I start shakily, my voice hoarse with emotion and disuse.

His fingers press gently against my lips, and he murmurs "No, my love, no, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I'm such an ass." His eyes are downcast and he shakes his head sadly. I reach up to move his fingers from my lips; there is so much I need to say to him, so many things I should have told him long before now, but before I can say a word his lips are on mine. The kiss begins sweetly but soon deepens. There's a quiet desperation to the way he kisses me, parting my lips with his tongue, winding his hand in my hair. Fire races through my entire body, chasing away the sluggishness until my every nerve is humming. I respond eagerly, heat pooling in my belly, letting my hands roam, tentatively, over the firm expanse of his broad chest, running my fingers through the blond curls there, then up to his collarbone. "Katniss," he breathes into my mouth and I wrap my arms around his neck, pressing myself more tightly to him. He whimpers and pulls back slightly, breathing heavily, then peppering my face with kisses; my cheeks, my forehead, my nose, before pulling me into a tight embrace. I tuck my nose into the crook of his shoulder and inhale deeply, reveling in his scent, cinnamon and bread and Peeta. He trembles and his arms tighten around me. His breaths become more ragged; only then do I realize that he's crying.

"Peeta?" I whisper questioningly. He chokes out a quiet sob, murmuring into my hair "I almost lost you" over and over again. I wrap my arms more tightly around him and press my lips against his neck. "I'm here Peeta," I whisper, "I'm not going anywhere." I drift to sleep as he rocks me gently.

When I wake up again I'm alone in Peeta's big bed, and the sun is fully up. I can hear low voices just outside the room. I push myself up into a sitting position with some difficulty, my arms and legs feel weak, and my head swims from the effort. I can't help the small groan that escapes me. Immediately a blond head pokes through the door, his face breaking into a smile. "You're awake, how are you feeling?" he asks, coming around to sit beside me on the edge of the bed. Greasy Sae follows him into the room, carrying a small lidded pot that she sets on the nightstand. She stares at me a moment, like she wants to say something, but instead pats me on the hand and walks back out of the room. I listen to her descending the stairs while I look at the door, perplexed.

"Katniss?" I turn back to Peeta, he's still smiling but his brow is creased with concern. I give him a tentative half smile.

"Feeling a little rough actually," I manage. He's dressed, wearing jeans and a simple white t-shirt that emphasizes his broad shoulders and muscled arms, and I realize that I'm now wearing pajamas over my underclothes. I try to piece together how I got here. Was I lying in his arms earlier? Kissing him? Was that real? "A little confused too," I add.

He chuckles, "I don't doubt that." He reaches a gentle hand to tuck my tangled hair behind my ear, then continues, "Sae brought some broth, you need to eat, and then we can talk."

He reaches over to lift the lidded pot from the nightstand and I'm transported to our cave and another broth pot. I look at him with wide eyes and I know he's thinking the same thing. "No silver parachute this time," he smirks.

When he lifts the lid and the scent of the broth wafts out I realize that I'm ravenous. I eat most of it while he sits quietly beside me, a half smile playing on his lips.

"You brought me home?" I start. He nods, his eyes wary, as if he's not sure whether I'm upset with him. I reach for his hand and gently squeeze it. "Thank you Peeta." He smiles, a wide smile that crinkles his eyes and lights up his face, the smile he saves just for me. I can't help but smile back. So many unsaid things hang in the air between us but neither of us seems to have any idea where to start, so for a while we just sit, holding hands in companionable silence.

Finally he sighs softly. "Listen, Katniss, I owe you a huge apology." I start to shake my head, but he presses forward, "Thom told me that the Hawthornes are moving back to Twelve."

"What?" I interrupt him. "Why? When?"

He chuckles, "In a few weeks," he replies, "and as for why, well, this is their home. I take it you didn't know." I shake my head; no one had mentioned anything to me, though to be fair I don't generally seek out people to chat with. Except for Peeta that is. But why is he apologizing for the Hawthornes moving back? My confusion must be evident, because he smiles tightly and continues.

"I know it doesn't make a lot of sense, but when I heard they were coming back, well, I started thinking about Gale. And then I started thinking about you and Gale, and, well, when I heard you on the phone the other day I made a pretty ridiculous mental leap into thinking that you and Gale were…" he stops here, unable or unwilling to continue.

"Were what, Peeta?" I gently prompt. I genuinely have no idea what he's thinking. It would be a lie to say that I never think about Gale, never wonder how he is, but I haven't spoken to him since the day I killed Coin and that's exactly how I want it. Part of me will always miss Gale, but I can't separate him from the bombs that killed my sister, and I don't know if I will ever be able to.

He won't meet my eyes. Finally he says softly "I keep expecting you to choose him again."

My breath catches in my chest. It all becomes clear: In all of the months we've been back, all of the time we've spent together, I've never told him how I feel. I've left him thinking that I'm just waiting for Gale to charge back into town so that we can run off into the woods together, and still Peeta's stayed. He's been everything I've needed him to be, supported me, cared for me and never once asked for anything in return, and through all of that he's believed that at any moment I might abandon him again. Pain wells up in my heart, but again I can't find the words. He's looking off towards the window as the silence stretches between us, almost palpable.

I can't take it any more; I may not be able to tell him how I feel but I can show him. I push myself up onto my knees and take his face gently in my hands, forcing him to look into my eyes. I see naked vulnerability in those beautiful blue eyes, but also longing, and that gives me the courage to continue. I lean forward and kiss him gently. When he doesn't pull back, I wind my hands through his soft curls and deepen the kiss, nipping his lower lip with my teeth, stroking his tongue with mine. He makes a whimpering sound against my mouth which makes me moan softly. He wraps his arms around me, pressing us tightly together, his fingers gripping my hair at the nape of my neck, our tongues dancing and exploring. When finally we break apart, panting, I sit back slightly on my knees and take his hand, moving it towards my chest. His eyes widen, and I feel a slight resistance in his arm, but I continue, placing his palm over my heart and holding it there. "Can you feel my heart Peeta?" He nods, and I continue, "It's pounding, and only you have ever made me feel this way, Peeta. Only you." His eyes light up and his free hand gently takes mine and presses it to his chest, above his heart. I can feel it racing, keeping almost perfect time with my own. I grin at him as we sit facing each other, hands pressed over each other's hearts.


	27. Chapter 27

When I finally got Katniss home after that long, exhausting trip back through the woods, Brody suggested skin to skin contact would be the most efficient method for rewarming her, telling me to undress her, and myself, and slip into bed together. Of course people around here (except Haymitch and maybe Sae) assume that Katniss and I are already intimate, between the fake marriage and the fake pregnancy and the very real fact that we share a bed every night, it's laughable, really, that we're not, and never have been. I certainly wasn't going to tell him that though, and I definitely wanted to do anything to make her better. I didn't sleep a wink all night, holding her close until morning, only letting her go to gently dress her in warm pajamas before people started showing up to check in on us.

I can't remember ever being as afraid as I was last night, seeing her cold and unmoving on the floor of the little cabin. I've lived through two Hunger Games and a war, been beaten, tortured and poisoned, had my memories destroyed, been fed terrifying images that still sometimes leap into my mind and make me tremble and quake, and none of it was as awful as that moment. I thought she was gone, and I truly wanted nothing more than to join her.

All of these things swirl in my mind as I lean against the bedroom doorframe watching Brody, who showed up before she and I had a chance to talk, examine Katniss; checking her fingers and toes for frostbite, taking her blood pressure. He's built like a soldier, solid and strong, but he has the calm gentleness of a healer. It's a relief to have medical care in Twelve again. As he finishes his exam, he says something to Katniss that I don't quite catch, something about Prim, and I reflexively hold my breath. Prim is still a difficult topic for Katniss, and after the events of the past couple of weeks I'm worried about her reaction. She looks up at him with an expression of sadness, but also of pride, and I realize that Brody probably met Prim in Thirteen, while she was working in the medical bay there.

He's gathering his things to leave, so I move back into the room. "Take it easy for a couple of days," he admonishes her, "and keep those toes warm." He's smiling as he nods to me, walking towards the door, then over his shoulder he calls back to Katniss, "Maybe bring a compass with you into the woods from now on, in case you get disoriented in the fog again. Happens to the best of us. I'll let myself out." Her jaw drops as she watches him leave the room.

"Disoriented in the fog?" she says in disbelief.

I shrug. "Haymitch." I say by way of explanation. She scowls.

"I've never in my life gotten disoriented in the woods!" She crosses her arms and her scowl deepens. "I know these woods like the back of my hand, better than anyone else in the district! How dare he make me look incompetent and weak!" She's fuming; her eyes are hard and angry, her body language closed. My heart falls.

"Katniss," I start, low and calm.

"No," she interrupts, "he made me look like a fool Peeta! How can I trade at the market if they're all thinking I can't even handle myself out in the woods?"

I sigh. "What should he have told them, Katniss?" I cross over to the window, staring as the cold wind blows the fallen leaves around, swirling, dancing, seemingly carefree, so different from the atmosphere in this room, heavy with things unsaid. Finally I force myself to ask the question I've been avoiding all morning. "Why did you go out to the cabin?" She's quiet for a long time. When I turn back to her she's looking down at her hands in her lap, twisting the bed sheets, an expression of intense shame on her face. I come around and sit on the edge of the bed beside her, gently tipping her chin up until she meets my eyes.

"I'm sorry," she whispers. I shake my head, but say nothing, silently willing her to continue. She closes her eyes, fighting back tears. Then with a shaky breath she continues. "My mother called. We had a conversation, a real conversation, and I think we resolved some things." She opens those silver eyes I love so much and fixes them to mine. "Peeta, she sounded so happy. I haven't heard her happy like that since before, before my father died." She swallows hard, closing her eyes again. "She couldn't be happy with me, couldn't even pretend for me or… or even for Prim. I just felt like she only found happiness because she left me. Like being near me prevented her from ever being happy again. She won't even come for a visit; it'd be too hard for her to be here with me. And then when you came home, and you were so angry, so hurt, and I thought I've been preventing you from being happy too. You're so different when you're not with me, so much happier, and things have been so strange and cold between us lately… I… I thought maybe you were only putting up with me because you felt bad for me. Like I was just in your way."

I gather her into my arms, she's unresisting but she feels a million miles away. "Peeta," she whispers into my chest. "I just wanted to fade away. Things would be better for so many people that way. You could have a real life Peeta, you could be happy, I know you could. I'm so selfish Peeta, I'm selfish and I'm broken and you deserve to be free of that. To be free of me."

My arms tighten around her. Doesn't she understand that being free of her would be a death sentence for me, that my life is nothing without her in it? Finally I pull back and look into her eyes. I don't want her to miss a single word. "Katniss, I love you, I'll always love you. I told you before that my life is meaningless without you in it, and it's still true. Every day that passes, every moment we spend together, I fall even more in love with you." Those incredibly expressive silvery eyes hold both fear, and something else, something unexpected: hope. I speed ahead, before I lose her, before the walls come up. "I know that you're not ready for that yet Katniss, I understand, and I'm so, so happy just spending time together, learning about each other, growing together. I'll wait for you, for as long as you need. Forever." I can feel my eyes filling with tears. "I'm sorry, so, so sorry for what I said Katniss, for pushing you away." She silences me with a kiss, just a gentle brush of her closed lips against mine that nonetheless sends electric shocks through me.

"Peeta," she begins softly, "It's my fault." I try to interject, but she silences me, "No, just listen. I'm not very good with words, not like you are." She peeks up at me through her lashes. I wonder if she has any idea how seductive she looks when she does that? "I'm so afraid Peeta. I'm afraid that I'll screw up and you'll be gone. I don't know how to do this," she gestures between herself and me as she says the word 'this' before continuing. "But I can't be without you, even though I'm scared half to death." She looks so vulnerable that it makes me physically ache for her. She continues, so quietly I'm not certain that she intends for me to hear her, "Everyone I've ever loved has left me Peeta. You're the only one who's stayed."

"I'm not going anywhere Katniss, I promise you that. And this," I say, repeating her earlier gesture, "Can be anything we want it to be, no pressure. Okay? Whatever we want. Nothing has to change. I just… I can't lose you Katniss." I mean this too; these past couple of days have made it very clear to me that I need Katniss in my life, in whatever capacity she's willing to give. If only as friends so be it, no matter how badly I want her, want more, our friendship is enough.

Katniss leans into me, resting her head against my chest. "Okay," is all she says.

After a pause I ask, "Why didn't you tell me that your confinement to District 12 was lifted?" I know I'm pushing my luck, she's already opened up so much, but I'm curious, it seems like a kind of big deal and she never once mentioned it. Katniss lifts her head and looks at me, a myriad of emotions playing across her face. I have the feeling that I'm watching her have an internal dialogue. I have to bite back a smile, she's so expressive, it's no wonder she's a terrible liar. She nods her head slightly, as if she's made a decision.

"Do you know why I killed Coin?"

"Because she was going to stage another Hunger Games," I reply immediately. I remember that vote so clearly, I'd been heartbroken, sickened even, when Katniss and Haymitch had voted yes, I was determined to leave the room, was stomping off actually, when Haymitch grabbed my arm. He said quietly enough that only I could hear him 'trust her'. And I remembered how they always seemed to know what each other was thinking and I figured that maybe there was more going on than I could understand. So when Katniss shot Coin, I assumed it was because of the Games suggestion.

Katniss nods. "That was a big part of it, but there was more." She takes a deep breath. "The night before I was supposed to execute Snow I was wandering through the mansion." She glances up at me before added wryly, "Looking for hiding spots." I smirk a little; Haymitch filled me in on Katniss's propensity for hiding in small spaces when she needed to escape life in District 13. Hadn't I also found her in closets here more than once? She continues, cautiously, "I wandered into a section I hadn't been in before, and that's when I smelled them." She shudders, her face contorting. I grab her hands, squeezing them gently in support, encouraging her to continue. "Snow's roses." Her voice is barely a whisper now, but she continues. "I followed the smell until I got to a room that was guarded by a couple of rebel soldiers. They wouldn't let me pass, but then Paylor showed up and she told them to let me in. It was Snow's greenhouse, and he was being held there. In his greenhouse, in his mansion." Her voice is stronger now, and there is a palpable anger in her words. "After everything he did to you, to all of us, he was being held in the lap of luxury instead of in some dungeon!"

"Paylor let you go in to see Snow?" I can't help interjecting, I'm confused. She nods.

"Yeah. I didn't even realize he was in there at first, until he said he was sorry about Prim." I stiffen, horrified. That monster had tormented Katniss after killing her sister, knowing that Prim was the most important person in her life! I'm disgusted, but I stay silent. I know there is more to this, and I feel like maybe this is something Katniss needs to get off her chest.

"He told me it was," she pauses, as if searching for words, "I think he said 'wasteful and unnecessary'. He told me he was just about to surrender when the rebels released the parachutes." I gasp, I can't stop myself.

"He," I start, my mind whirling, "He blamed the rebels for killing all of those children?"

"Yes. He said it was a rebel hovercraft, that if he'd had a working hovercraft himself he would have used it to escape."

"But I was there when the bombs exploded." Of course I was. I pulled Katniss from the flames, we both bear scars from that horrible fire. "I saw the hovercraft, it was a Capitol hovercraft!" My voice is raising, I can't wrap my head around any of this. "You believed him?" I mean it as a question, but it sounds like an accusation. She flinches, and I'm immediately sorry.

"I – I didn't at first, no," she says quietly. "But Peeta, those double exploding bombs, the ones designed to hurt the first target, then kill the people who come to their aid? The ones that killed all of those children and all of the medics? I know the rebels had bombs like that. I saw them being developed in Thirteen, in Special Defense." She starts twisting the bed sheets in her lap again, her bottom lip trembling. "Beetee and Gale designed them," she whispers.

I feel like the wind has been knocked out of me. I stare at Katniss, dumbstruck, my mouth open. She stares back, tears shimmering in her eyes.

"That's why you stopped talking to Gale?" It seems so trivial after everything else she's told me, but I need to know. She shrugs.

"There was already a wall between us. So many of the decisions he made in Thirteen and in the war… I couldn't understand him. He just wasn't the person I used to know. Or maybe he was, and I'd never truly seen him before." She smiles sadly, "He brought me my bow and an arrow the morning of the execution. You know, he never once visited me in the burn ward, or afterwards when I was alone, waiting for Snow's execution. And I didn't notice. I didn't even notice. That was the first time I'd seen him since the Capitol fell and I hadn't really even noticed his absence." She shakes her head, almost as if she's realizing that for the first time herself, then continues, "I asked him if the bombs were his, he said he didn't know. He told me it didn't matter because I'd always think they could have been. And he was right."

She sniffles, and then as I watch she steels herself, squares her shoulders. "Coin was no better than Snow. She sent you out to join the star squad hoping that you would snap and kill me." I know this is true, Haymitch told me as much while I was still in the Capitol hospital, but it hurts to hear. "Prim, Prim was only 13 years old, Peeta. She couldn't have been on the front lines unless someone high up the chain of command authorized it." I nod, I hadn't thought about that, but of course it's true, I've been told that people in Thirteen start training as soldiers at age 14, and I imagine they wouldn't have gone to the front lines until they'd been trained. "Is it really such a stretch to think that Coin would have sacrificed a bunch of Capitol children and a few of the rebel medics to ensure that the Capitol citizens turned against Snow? That she'd sacrifice my sweet sister to cement my commitment to her leadership? And Paylor, well she was pretty high up in Coin's administration, I imagine she knew. I think that's why she let me see Snow, so I'd know the truth." She chuckles mirthlessly, "I doubt she anticipated everything that followed."

"I wasn't planning on killing Coin that day Peeta." She's so quiet now I have to strain to hear her, even though we're sitting so close together that we're physically touching. "I was so confused, about what Snow had told me, about what my heart was telling me. Then she gathered us together, all of the victors, the people who knew firsthand how horrible, how… how life destroying the Games were. She gathered us together and told us to vote on having another Games! I was crushed, that after everything we'd been through, everything we'd fought for, nothing was going to change."

"Shhh, that's enough, we don't have to talk about this anymore." I tell her, gathering her trembling form into my arms again, pulling her into my lap. I know how fragile she is, and I'm frightened that reliving that day is going to push her back into her dark place. I'm not sure I can take much more myself actually; I had believed unquestioningly that the Capitol killed those children, and I feel sick and ashamed that I, and so many others, might have been deceived by the rebels. By Coin. But Katniss isn't done.

"How did you know, Peeta? That day, after I… how did you know... with the nightlock?" She's speaking into my chest. I knew this question would come, eventually, but I'm not sure I have an answer.

"I didn't, not really. I was so upset after the vote, I tried to run off, but Haymitch stopped me. He told me to trust you. And I started to think about how you two always seemed to know what each other was thinking and I figured there was more going on than I could understand. So I stayed, and I watched you closely. It was when you whispered to your bow that I knew. I just knew you were saying goodbye to more than the bow. I was running on pure instinct, I couldn't…" I'm getting choked up now. "I couldn't stand the thought of a world without you Katniss." I bury my face in her hair, I'm afraid to say the rest, but I have to. "After, I didn't know if you'd ever forgive me."

She shifts to face me, still perched on my lap. Her hands cup my cheeks with such gentleness. "You protected me Peeta, protected me from myself." I know what she wants me to say.

"Because that's what we do. Protect each other."


	28. Chapter 28

AN: Please, if you're under 18 or easily offended by what happens in some loving relationships this is the time to bail!

* * *

Peeta lets me sleep most of the day and despite my insistence that I'm not tired I drift in and out of slumber. Each time I surface he's there in the bed beside me. When I finally feel well rested it's late afternoon, the sun is low on the horizon and Peeta is sitting beside me with his sketchbook propped up on his bended knee.

"Hey," he greets me, setting aside his book and leaning down beside me, "How are you feeling?"

"Much better," I tell him. He smiles and my heart stutters. He's so beautiful when he smiles. If these awful few days have shown me anything, it's that I need this boy, this man, in my life. I've been so afraid of loving anyone for so long, but I can't deny it to myself any longer: I love Peeta, and I have for a long time. He kisses my forehead sweetly.

"Why don't you have a hot shower and I'll go downstairs and make us something to eat. Okay?" I nod and smile, and without another word he's up out of bed and bounding down the stairs.

The shower feels incredible, I'm careful to keep the water tepid because Brody said it'd be a few days before I could handing anything very warm on my frostnipped toes, but I stand under the spray for a long time, letting the sadness and fear and tension of the past few days wash away. After, I don't bother getting dressed, simply sliding into clean pajamas instead, and braiding my damp hair back carelessly.

Slipping down the stairs with the soft steps I know he won't hear I stop just outside of the kitchen and watch Peeta standing over the stove, frying strips of meat and vegetables in a pan. He's humming faintly, tunelessly, and he's smiling softly, but he looks utterly exhausted and fragile. An immense wave of guilt washes over me, what I've done to him with my flightiness and my selfishness. While we both jumped to conclusions and made questionable choices, I know it's my ongoing inability to communicate with Peeta, with anyone really, that lead to our misunderstanding and ultimately to my running off, again. I quietly clear my throat to catch his attention, I know how vulnerable he is to flashbacks when he's exhausted and I don't want to startle him. He turns towards me and his smile widens. "Good timing," he says, 'Dinner is just about ready." I set the table and pour glasses of water as he finishes, enjoying the comfort and simplicity and frankly the normalcy of it.

We sit side by side, holding hands under the table as we eat. I think we both want to be as close to each other as possible. We don't really talk; instead we enjoy just being together again. After we wash the dishes, Peeta asks if I want to work on the memory book, but I can see clearly that he's not up to it today, though I know he'd push himself if it was what I wanted. I beg off, citing lingering exhaustion, though I'm actually fairly well rested, and Peeta looks so relieved that I know I've made the right choice. He quickly showers while I climb into bed.

When he slides in beside me, warm and good smelling, his soft curls still damp, he gathers me into his arms and I relish the pure comfort of his body against mine. We fit together as if we're made for each other, and maybe we are. I want to kiss him and touch him, like we'd been doing in bed before, but I feel shy and unsure. His nose is buried in my hair as he breathes deeply. I want us again. I have to tell him, before he falls asleep. "Peeta?" I begin.

"Hmm?" He says into my hair, sounding half asleep already.

"I'm never going to be good with words, not like you are, but I'm going to really try to be better."

"Okay?" He sounds confused; already I'm terrible at this better communication stuff. I sigh.

"Peeta," I try again, pulling back to look right into his eyes. "I don't want to confuse you or hurt you anymore. I promise I'll at least try to tell you what I'm thinking instead of running or hiding or lashing out. Okay?" It wasn't articulate in any way, but he looks at me with dawning understanding and his lips turn up in a sweet smile.

"Okay, and I promise you the same," he says, punctuating his words with a tender kiss on my forehead. He's never been the one with communication issues, but I appreciate his willingness to make it easier for me. I grin.

"Well then, in the spirit of better communication I feel like I should tell you that I'd really like to kiss you right now," I say hopefully, trying not to blush.

He laughs softly and his hands cradle my cheeks gently as his lips meet mine. I sigh into the kiss and my hands find their way into those damp, silky curls.

I've missed this, missed this incredible, gentle man, missed his hands and lips and the drumming of his heartbeat next to mine. I need to tell him, he needs to hear that from me. "I've missed you Peeta. I missed you so much," I murmur between kisses.

"I missed you too, Katniss."

"I don't want to ever be apart again," I tell him, and I mean it, but he pulls back, his blue eyes searching mine. In them I see fear and longing, after me pushing him away so many times he is afraid to believe, but he wants to, I can see it. I don't have the words to convince him, I need to show him. So I pull him down to me, kissing him with desperation, our open mouths testing and tasting, arousing and inflaming. The hunger is back, and this time I won't let anything stop us. I wrap my arms around him, pressing our upper bodies tightly together, trying to pull him closer but he resists, keeping a respectful distance between our lower halves. But I can feel his pounding heart, hear his ragged breathing. I don't know much about men, not in this way, but I know he wants this, I know he wants more.

Acting on instinct alone I push him backwards until he's half lying in the bed, half propped up against the headboard, and I'm hovering over him, straddling his good leg. I run my hands down his chest, feeling him tremble beneath me, then gently edge up the hem of his t-shirt. His eyes widen and I can sense his question, his hesitation, though he makes no move to stop me. "I want to touch you." I whisper. His throat bobs as he swallows hard, then nods. I continue pushing his shirt up, slowly, letting my fingers graze along the bare skin of his stomach as I do. His muscles contract under my wandering fingertips and his breathing gets harsher. He lifts his arms and head to allow me to pull off his shirt, then lies back against the headboard and waits. My hands map out his broad chest, skimming along scars from his burns and skin grafts, alternating smooth and rigid, ghosting over his nipples and trailing down to the line of hair below his navel, stopping just above the waistband of his pajama bottoms, which are obviously tented. His skin is so hot, so overwhelmingly hot, I just want to touch and taste every inch of him. When my lips and tongue follow the same path my hands did before, Peeta begins to moan, softly, and the sound makes goosebumps break out all over me, makes my core tingle.

I'm desperate to race ahead but I force myself to take my time. I run my tongue over one of his nipples and his hips buck involuntarily, his erection brushing against my thigh. When I draw the little peak into my mouth and suckle his moans start again, louder, more desperate. I want to hear all of his noises, I want to make him fall apart under me. Until this point Peeta's hands have been clutching the blankets beside him, but now they begin to travel up my back and into my hair, still restrained but searching. His hands are hot like his chest and they stoke the fire in me.

I sit up on my knees and gather all of my courage. Keeping my eyes locked to his I start to unbutton my own pajama top, under which I wear nothing. His hands rest on my hips and I can feel them shaking, his tongue darts out over and over again to wet his lips, the look on his face is so dark and hungry that I'm trembling too. It feels like it takes forever to reach the last button, but when I do Peeta's hands grasp my wrists.

"Let me," he whispers. "Please?" I nod, dropping my hands to my sides. He sits up so that we are face to face. His hands cup my cheeks as he kisses me breathless, then he pulls back and slowly, so very slowly, slides my top off my shoulders. When my breasts are revealed to him he whimpers, and I can feel the shudder that flows through his entire body. I slide my arms out of my shirt and his hands return to my hips, his eyes roving hungrily over my exposed torso. "So beautiful," he murmurs, but he only looks, making no move to touch me. My heart is pounding and I'm shaking all over but I have no idea what to do next. I can feel the heat rising in my cheeks and tears pricking the back of my eyes. I'm lost and overwhelmed and I just want him to touch me so badly but I'm afraid to ask. His eyes are still fixated on my breasts, unblinking, and he's panting like he's run miles.

"Peeta," I whisper, but it sounds like a plea. His eyes return to mine, wide and feral. I can't hold his gaze. I drop my head and mumble, "Don't you want to touch me?"

"Yes," he breathes, "So much…" and his hands slide tentatively up my ribcage, pausing just below my breasts. He bites his lip, shyness written in his expression but I cannot wait another second and lean forward until my breasts slide into his palms. His hands are so large they cover my small breasts completely, warming them, making my skin pebble. The moan that escapes me is embarrassingly loud as his palms gently cup me, squeezing and massaging, then his thumbs move to brush against my nipples and I gasp, it feels incredible, electric. My body is tingling, shocks radiate outwards when he gently rolls my nipples between his thumbs and forefingers and they stiffen in appreciation. I begin to squirm uncontrollably, still straddling his thigh. He notices and looks up at me with an expression of awe. Then all at once we're kissing again, our lips crash together and he crushes my breasts against his bare chest, his hands trailing fire as they caress my back, pressing us tightly together.

Peeta lowers me back onto the bed, then his lips trail down my neck, sucking and nipping at my collarbone, kissing his way down, along the valley between my breasts, the sensitive skin underneath. When finally those soft full lips close over my nipple I arch into him, crying out his name. He groans, suckling harder, my hands plunge into his hair holding him tightly against me, silently encouraging him to continue. And he does, sucking and licking and gently biting at first one peak, then the other, until I'm thrashing in the bed, desperate for release. "Peeta, Peeta," I beg. He moans against my skin.

"I love hearing you say my name that way." he breathes. I whimper at his words, pulling him back up to kiss him hard, fervently. He rocks against me, his hardness rubbing so tantalizingly against me, soothing and igniting the ache at the same time. We are clutching at each other, grinding our bodies together, trying to get impossibly closer.

I'm undone by my need, by my desire for him, for only him, only Peeta. I grab his face between my hands, looking into his eyes, hooded with lust but still shining with love, and my heart feels like it will burst out of my chest. "Peeta," I begin, shocked by how husky and throaty my voice sounds, so very unlike me. "I want you Peeta. Please." His reaction is explosive, shy, hesitant Peeta disappears leaving a possessed man above me, his hands and lips touching and stroking and biting me everywhere. His hips move against mine, his erection feels impossibly hard and hot even through our pajamas as he rubs against my core, over and over. I wrap my legs around his thighs and I can feel myself building, like I did when he made me come that hot night in his studio. I shudder remembering and he must feel it because he curses softly and starts moving faster, but I want him to come this time, I want to make him fall apart.

I use the strength in my legs to roll us over, and then I'm straddling his hips. Without thinking I rock against him, rubbing my core against his length through our clothing, and the growl he makes sets me on fire. Again and again I rock against him, my head thrown back until I can't take it anymore. I have to touch him. He makes a sound of negation as I shift off of him, but then I hook my fingers into the waistband of his pants and start to tug them and his shorts down. Finally he springs free, bouncing against his stomach. I've seen injured miners on my mother's kitchen table before, briefly, before running off to be anywhere else, but seeing a naked half-dead person in no way prepared me for this. I release the breath I hadn't realized I was holding all in a rush. It sounds like 'woah'. Peeta flushes scarlet red and throws an arm over his eyes as I continue to stare at him. He is larger than I was expecting, and I briefly wonder about the mechanics of sex because I don't think that is going to fit in me. I reach out a tentative hand, brushing two fingertips against him. As I do he twitches and I jerk back slightly. Peeta makes a strangled noise from where he continues to hide under his arm. I take a deep breath and reach for him again, stroking my fingers down the length of him before wrapping my hand around his erection. It's burning hot and hard as stone, pulsating slightly with his heartbeat, but the skin is so soft it's almost velvety. Peeta pushes up into my tentative grasp and swears under his breath. Beads of moisture gather at the tip and I rub my thumb over him, spreading the wetness over his head and down his shaft. He whimpers as I hesitantly move my hand up and down his length, then just as I'm starting to understand from his noises what to do he sits up suddenly, grabbing my wrist and halting my actions. I'm mortified; I must have done something wrong.

"I'm sorry," I whimper. Peeta shakes his head, his eyes screwed tightly shut as he breathes roughly, his nostrils flaring. We sit there for a few moments, my hand still loosely encircling his pulsating member, his hand tightly on my wrist, both of us trying to control our breathing.

Finally he opens his eyes and reaches for me, stroking my hair and looking into my eyes. "You… your hand… It just… felt too good Katniss. I don't… I don't want to be done yet." His eyes burn with a hunger and intensity I've never seen. My jaw drops as I understand what he means. I feel powerful, that I could bring him to the brink just with my touch.

He pushes his pants completely off and tosses them on the floor before kissing me again, hard, insistent, rolling me onto my back. His hands caress my stomach, stroking the skin of my belly almost reverently, then they slide down to the waist of my pajama pants and I lift my hips, moaning, "Yes, yes…" He pulls them off quickly along with my panties, leaving me bare for him. In that moment I don't think about my scars, about my too small breasts or the sharp angles of my hips, all I can see is the love and awe that radiates from Peeta's face; I see myself as he sees me and I feel beautiful and desirable. I reach for him and he lowers himself over me, for a while we simply hold each other, hot skin against hot skin, every inch pressed together. It feels so good, so right. Then we're kissing again, deep, passionate kisses, and we're rocking together, our sweat-slicked bodies sliding together.

His hand moves slowly lower, caressing my ribs, my stomach, my hip, stroking the inside of my thigh before gently cupping me. When finally his fingers oh so carefully part my folds and begin to explore I cry out loudly and he groans as if he's in pain.

"So wet," he murmurs against my lips. "So wet for me."

I squirm, torn between embarrassment and lust, but lust wins out as his fingers move through my wetness. He watches my face as he strokes me, and when he finds that bundle of nerves I cry out again, squeezing my eyes shut and gripping the bedsheets tightly in my fists, arching my back. There is nothing in the world except his fingers circling firmly between my legs and the waves of pleasure I'm riding. It feels so good, so impossibly good, but I want more, I want him. All of him.

"Peeta, make love to me."

His hand stills, then falls away, and I hold my breath. He pushes himself up on his elbows, looking right into my eyes. His shimmer slightly. "Are… are you sure?" he whispers. And I nod, my eyes still locked with his. His eyes mirror everything I'm feeling; the desire, the anticipation and the fear. Love swells in my chest and I know I could never have felt this way about anyone else. It was always going to be Peeta. We stay this way for what feels like a long time, bodies pressed together but unmoving, just staring into each other's eyes. It feels so intimate but also so incredibly right. Finally he blinks, and his brow furrows slightly. "Katniss," he starts, his voice trembling, "I don't… I don't have… anything… for… so that… so we don't…" I've never heard him stutter this way, and for a moment I'm perplexed but then it dawns on me, and I smile softly.

I take his hand and guide his index finger to the inside of my left arm, rubbing it gently across the two tiny lumps there, each smaller than a grain of rice. The fire spared most of my left arm and left them intact. "Contraceptive implant," I explain. "The doctors in Thirteen didn't want their Mockingjay to actually get knocked up." I can't resist rolling my eyes. "They said it lasts five years." I feel a little pulse of anger, like I do every time I think of the things they did to me in Thirteen, and in the Capitol, without ever once asking, but I push it away. Peeta's expression changes from confusion to realization to happiness, but there's a tiny flicker of anger in there too and I know that he's thinking about what they did to him in Thirteen as well. But those are thoughts for another time, right now my body is buzzing with need. I pull him down to me again and kiss him passionately. He responds eagerly and again we are rocking together. "Peeta, please," I beg breathlessly, "Please, I want you. I'm ready."

He nods and settles himself between my thighs, reaching between us and taking himself in hand. He rubs the tip through my folds and I tremble, bucking my hips each time he brushes against that sensitive little bud. It takes him several attempts to find my entrance, his brows furrowed in concentration. I want to laugh, but then the head presses into me and I freeze, eyes wide. A choked noise of shock escapes me.

I expect him to pull back out, to ask if I want to stop, but he doesn't. He stays still, allowing me to get used to the intrusion, and feathers soft kisses over my face and neck. When my body starts to relax he begins to push into me again, slowly, so slowly, still kissing me tenderly, as if we have all the time in the world. And maybe we do. Though his body is shaking like a leaf above me, his voice is steady as he murmurs soft affirmations in my ear.

I feel impossibly stretched, the feeling so foreign and strange, but his voice in my ear keeps me grounded in the present. There's no sharp pain, not like the girls at school talked about, just a burning that seems to fade more and more the further he pushes into me. When we are pressed together as tightly as we can be he stills and pushes himself up on shaky arms to hover over me. His eyes glow with awe and disbelief. And love.

"Are you okay?" he whispers.

I have no words. I can scarcely breathe. I nod slowly, and try to smile, though I'm not sure it's convincing. He kisses me again, but otherwise stays still. As his tongue plunders my mouth the fire that the pain and shock dampened starts to flare again and when I start to wiggle my hips beneath him he tears his mouth away from mine, cursing.

"I need to move now," he pleads, and pulls back slightly before pushing in again, moaning as he does. He sets a slow, careful pace, but I can tell how tightly he's holding himself in check, holding back so that he doesn't hurt me. I'm not in pain though. I wouldn't say that it feels good exactly, not yet, but I can see how it will. And the look on his face, how his eyes are glazed and his jaw is slack, the beads of sweat on his flushed face despite the cool night, I've never seen anything so beautiful.

I want him to come. I want to make him mine. I try to move with him but it's clumsy and awkward and the way Peeta's brows furrow just slightly tells me it's not very good for him so instead I wrap my legs around his thighs and a breathless "yes," falls from his lips. Boldly, I reach down to grab his ass, shocked and incredibly aroused by the way the muscles move, the unexpected firmness of his flesh. His hips snap forward, driving himself so deeply into me that I yelp but I don't think he can hear it over the string of curse words he's panting into my neck. Two more quick, hard thrusts and he stills, grunting his release. I can feel his his stomach muscles tense and him throbbing inside me. Then as if every muscle in his body has turned to liquid he slumps heavily against me. I run my hands up and down his sweaty back as his breath skirts along my collarbone.

After a moment Peeta lifts his head and kisses me all over my face, my eyelids, my shoulder, my neck; sweet kisses filled with love and gratitude. He's whispering my name over and over, like a prayer, and my heart is so full that I can't hold back the tears. His eyes widen and he shifts to lie beside me, taking his weight off me and breaking our connection, and I find I immediately miss the feeling of his body inside mine, which only makes more tears fall.

"Are you okay, Katniss? Did I hurt you?" His concern is so sweet, his expression so worried. I smile through my tears.

"No," I start, and it almost sounds like a laugh. "No, you didn't hurt me. You were wonderful Peeta." I cup his cheeks in my hands and kiss him, but the tears won't stop. He brushes them away so tenderly.

"Why are you crying?"

This time I do laugh. "I don't know," I admit. "I'm just so happy." And it's true, though I'm more than just happy. I feel content and filled and loved. I never knew it could be like this. Peeta seems to understand because he smiles broadly and wraps his arms around me, pulling me tightly against him and I bask in the comfort of his body pressed against mine, enveloping me in his warmth.

I know Peeta's exhausted, I expect to feel him drop off to sleep immediately, but I don't. Instead his fingers trace lazy designs up and down my side, something he does when he's deep in thought. Finally his voice rings through the hush.

"Katniss?" I pull back to look up at him. His eyes are heavy with sleep, but determined. He takes a deep breath, as if to steel himself, then whispers, "You love me, real or not real?"

I tell him, "Real. I love you, Peeta." And the words aren't scary at all. The smile he gives me in reply is so joyful that I can't stop myself from smiling back. He tries to kiss me, but it's difficult with such huge grins on our faces. He laughs against my lips.

"I love you too, Katniss. So much."


End file.
